


We Are Forever Chasing the Dawn

by earthinmywindow



Series: Dream Runners [7]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 64,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1458967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthinmywindow/pseuds/earthinmywindow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been over three years since Bertolt, Reiner, and Annie ran away from home. Now they find themselves spending the summer in a Hollywood mansion with a hip but eccentric celebrity couple. The runaway trio appear to be doing okay, but they are still holding things back from each other and their cunning hostesses take it upon themselves to incite some action. One way or another, every secret will have to come out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 上

**Author's Note:**

> A word of warning, or rather an apology of sorts: this fic will have two sections and the second is not yet finished.
> 
> I've been working hard on this, the penultimate installment of the Dream Runners series, but it has been proving rather thorny. Figuring out how best to incorporate three points of view is my biggest challenge. Do I separate the three characters' viewpoints or weave them together? Ultimately, I decided to do both. The first section, which I am posting now, depicts the same evening through the eyes of Annie, Reiner, and Bertolt in turn. It might feel a little redundant, but my aim here was to establish each protagonist's mental and emotional state and set up the more forward-moving and less introspective second section.
> 
> The second section will toggle back and forth with the POV, shifting to whoever feels right for a particular scene. So it won't describe every event in triplicate, I promise. That said, the second section will take me a while longer since it is going to be lengthy and I have been busy lately. I hope the first section is enjoyable and not a letdown to anyone who was hoping for the full fic. I wanted to post something because it has been so many weeks since I updated and the style change felt like a good place to split it up.
> 
> So here is the first half (which will probably come out to less than half the fic when all is written). The rating will jump to E when I post the second half, which may be good or bad news for readers.
> 
> As always, thank you so much to everyone who has read this series so far. The kudos and comments have all been so kind and uplifting.

** Annie **

  
It started, like always, with a theatrical moment of silence. Then a rolling drumbeat burst from the speakers, quickly joined by bass and guitar and all the other instruments, layering into that distinctively soulful Motown sound. Ymir moved the microphone into position in front of her mouth, a sly little grin lighting up her face as she anticipated the opening lines.  
  
 _“If I could build my whole world around you,_  
 _First I'd put heaven by your side._  
 _Pretty flowers would grow wherever you walk, honey,_  
 _And over your head would be the bluest sky._  
 _And I'd take every drop of rain,_  
 _And wash all your troubles away._  
 _I'd have the whole world wrapped up in you, darling,_  
 _And that would be all right, oh yes it would”_  
  
Right on cue, Ymir’s wife Historia belted out her part in a voice as clear and ringing as a songbird’s.  
  
 _“If I could build my whole world around you,_  
 _I'd make your eyes the morning sun._  
 _I'd put so much love where there is sorrow._  
 _I'd put joy where there's never been none._  
 _And I'd give my love to you,_  
 _For you to keep for the rest of your life._  
 _Oh, and happiness would surely be ours,_  
 _And that would be all right, oh yes it would”_  
  
They weren’t even reading the lyrics spooling past on the monitor but instead were gazing into each other’s eyes with moonstruck expressions as they sang the song from memory. Annie could only watch them for a minute or two before secondhand embarrassment forced her to avert her attention to the crossword puzzle on her lap. This was the bizarre enchantment cast by Karaoke Night which transformed Ymir and Historia Reiss—who in all other circumstances were affectionate but unusually sophisticated for twenty-somethings newlyweds—into the most ridiculous, lovey-dovey dorks Annie had ever laid eyes on.  
  
Installed at one end of a c-shaped leather sofa, Annie was present but not participating, because she didn’t sing but had nowhere else to be. Several cushions away sat Bertolt and Reiner, the pair of them a lot closer to each other than they were to her (a configuration neatly analogous to the current sociological state of their group). They were both grinning like idiots, nodding along and tapping bare toes on the hardwood, completely absorbed in the whole silly production, which left Annie as the only one not having any particular fun. Peering over the top of her L.A. Times magazine, she watched as Reiner casually touched Bertolt on the shoulder, not an overtly romantic touch, but a touch that connoted a level of intimacy that Annie didn’t have with anybody anymore.  
  
She couldn’t feel any resentment towards them, though, because she was the one responsible for her current situation. This isolation was her own fault, brought upon her by a moment of reckless impulsivity in a motel room almost two years ago.  
  
Ever since Bertolt got sober and stood up to his father and Reiner openly acknowledged his sexuality, the two had been growing back together, mending their old friendship into something stronger, deeper. Though both of them still had troubles—they were, after all, still runaways—Reiner and Bertolt had been untethered from those non-secret secrets which had once been like boulders chained to their ankles. And now that they were free they could talk to each other about anything. Or _almost_ anything—there was still one subject she hoped against hope would remain off limits.  
  
Annie was not free. She still had a secret from each of them entrusted to the other, which combined into a big secret from both of them. But her secrets weren’t harmless like theirs were—hers would hurt the two people she loved more than anything else in the world. And so they had to be kept, even if it meant feeling alienated for the rest of her life.  
  
When the lovebirds brought their duet to its rollicking conclusion, the guys applauded, but Annie just said, in a blasé tone, without looking up from her puzzle, “Another splendid rendition. By any chance, do either of you know the name of a ‘Literary Rabbit,’ eight letters, starting with A?”  
  
But they weren’t paying attention to her. Nobody was.  
  
“I’m next,” Reiner said excitedly, springing to his feet and swooping in to relieve Historia of her microphone. “And I already know what song I’m going to sing.”  
  
As her brother searched the song catalog, Annie looked on warily. What would it be this time?  
  
“Angstrom.”  
  
“Huh?” Annie turned her eyes to Bertolt, who had said it. “Angstrom?”  
  
He gave her a very small smile, nothing smug about it, and said, “That’s the answer to your puzzle clue: ‘Literary Rabbit.’ It’s Rabbit Angstrom, the protagonist from John Updike’s novel series.”  
  
Annie blinked at him, stunned, not because he knew the answer—it wasn’t surprising considering his reading habits—but because he’d actually listened to her question. “Thanks,” she said before looking down so she could pencil in the name.  
  
By now Ymir and Historia had settled themselves on the opposite side of the sofa. Historia—a tiny blond wisp of a thing—had her back wedged against the armrest and her long crepe skirt was rucked up to her thighs, exposing thin, lily-white legs, which she draped over Ymir’s lap. Ymir hooked one arm around her and hung the other on the back of the sofa.  
  
“Okay, Burly, show us what you’ve got!” Ymir hollered at Reiner.  
  
Reiner flashed a showman’s smirk, having found his song at last, and announced: “Alright, folks, tonight I’m going to sing you a song by a little band called REO Speedwagon.”  
  
Even before the instrumentation started to play, Annie knew exactly what was coming and her stomach clenched in dread. A second later her anxiety was justified.  
  
 _“I can't fight this feeling any longer._  
 _And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow._  
 _What started out as friendship,_  
 _Has grown stronger._  
 _I only wish I had the strength to let it show.”_  
  
Unlike Bertolt, who could sing baritone or tenor with equal brilliance, Reiner was limited to a narrow vocal range at the higher end of bass and, far from brilliant, was usually off-key and warbling. But he sang with passion and intensity—so much that his eyes would squeeze shut and when they opened they appeared to shimmer as they looked only at Bertolt.  
  
 _“I tell myself that I can't hold out forever._  
 _I said there is no reason for my fear._  
 _Cause I feel so secure when we're together._  
 _You give my life direction,_  
 _You make everything so clear.”_  
  
Curling her body tighter, Annie forced herself to look at her puzzle, at the floor, at Ymir and Historia cuddling like a pair of puppies, at _anything_ other than her brother baring his raw feelings through song.  
  
Even though they were closer emotionally than ever before, there was one thing that Reiner still could not tell Bertolt directly. This song was a love confession and he meant every word of it. Tonight was by no means the first—every Karaoke Night so far had brought a different lovesick power ballad to Reiner’s lips: “(Everything I Do) I Do It For You,” “Why Can’t This Be Love,” “Hungry Eyes.”  
  
Did Ymir and Historia realize it? Annie wondered. It was hard to imagine that anybody could watch Reiner singing, follow his eyes, and not know exactly what was going on. But there was Bertolt, rapt in the performance and yet completely oblivious to the fact that it was all for him.  
  
Or was he?  
  
 _“And I can't fight this feeling anymore._  
 _I've forgotten what I started fighting for._  
 _It's time to bring this ship into the shore,_  
 _And throw away the oars, forever._  
  
 _Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore._  
 _I've forgotten what I started fighting for._  
 _And if I have to crawl upon the floor,_  
 _Come crushing through your door,_  
 _Baby, I can't fight this feeling anymore.”_  
  
Reiner finished his song and bowed deeply, sweeping an arm to the side.  
  
Bertolt clapped emphatically and said, “That was great, Reiner! You’re really getting better!”  
  
This, Annie thought, was a rather generous assessment of her brother’s singing, which, as far as her ears could tell, was just as awful as ever. She figured Bertolt was simply being kind because he cared so deeply about Reiner, but there was always that tiny, gnawing worry that maybe, this time, the message would finally make it through his thick skull and he would reciprocate. Whenever Bertolt took up the mic, she held her breath as she awaited his song selection, ready to analyze it for coded meaning. But his choices bore no patterns and were usually too eclectic to read. Nothing he sang ever sent the clear message: _I know you love me, Reiner, and I love you back._  
  
“You really sing from your heart,” Historia said in her daintily sweet voice. Ymir’s wife was the only female Annie had ever witnessed make Reiner blush, not from attraction, obviously—though she was very beautiful—but because she had an ethereal, angelic quality which few humans or animals were immune to.  
  
“What a surprise, another rock ballad.” Ymir was sarcastic, but it was a loving form of sarcasm. “Since I’m assuming Queen Frostine will once again not be participating, that means you’re next, Longshanks.”  
  
“Ah, right,” said Bertolt, hoisting himself up from his seat. “I think I know what song I’d like to sing.”  
  
Annie inhaled and didn’t exhale until the opening notes of Billy Joel’s “Always a Woman” spilled out from the speakers—probably not a love song for Reiner. It made her ashamed how relieved she felt. And for what? Why should she feel threatened by the emergence of ReiBert? Would she really be any lonelier than she was now if those two became lovers?  
  
Then Bertolt started singing and nothing else mattered. She closed her eyes and just listened to the sound of it, ignoring the actual words. Ah, that’s right—this was why she always hung around for Karaoke Night.  
  
Upon the conclusion of Bertolt’s song—his wonderful, beautiful song—Historia unwound herself from Ymir, who was reluctant to let her go, and said, “Excellent song! Now I think we need to make smoothies!”  
  
“More music to my ears,” said Reiner, pressing his palms together.  
  
Historia tittered girlishly. “Shall we make it a team effort?”  
  
To that, Reiner replied with a snort and a goofy smile and said, “You’ve read my mind, yet again. I don’t know how you do it.”  
  
“Longshanks and I better supervise,” said Ymir. “Don’t want you two going guava crazy like last time.”  
  
Annie prickled with annoyance at Ymir casually volunteering Bertolt for the pointless task, but kept her mouth shut and stayed put on the sofa while the four others drifted over to the bar.  
  
With her limited knowledge of the lifestyles of the rich and famous, Annie couldn’t say if it was typical of Hollywood mansions to have a bar in the living room. Even if it was a standard feature for the real estate in this neighborhood, the Reisses’ bar would probably still be considered unique because there wasn’t a drop of alcohol anywhere in the vicinity. In the entire house, actually, since Ymir was afflicted with the same predisposition as Bertolt. So in place of booze, the bar was stocked with every kind of fruit, fresh and frozen, local and tropical, as well as an extensive selection of supplemental add-ins: chia seeds, whey protein, wheat germ, and even more esoteric ingredients that only the Whole Foods set even knew existed. It was a smoothie bar, and on Karaoke Night, smoothies were de rigueur.  
  
Karaoke Night with the Reisses was always a strange event, not just because of the saccharine transformation it elicited in the hostesses and the absence of alcohol (a mainstay of every other instance of adult karaoke that had ever taken place since karaoke was invented), but also because of its spontaneous nature. Karaoke Night was not held on a regular schedule; it took place according to the whims of Ymir and Historia and was preceded by one of them (usually Ymir) making the announcement with great ceremony over breakfast that everyone was to cancel any other engagements for the evening and gather in the living room at eight. There was never more than a twelve-hour warning and it could happen any day of any week.  
  
And there were no outside guests invited to Karaoke Night—it was always just the five of them. Why Ymir and Historia did not hang out with a wider social circle—and indeed, why they so readily let a trio of drifters spend the summer at their mansion having only met one of them at a gay bar several years ago—remained one of the biggest unsolved mysteries.  
  
“Hey Annie, you want in on this?” Ymir hollered, hoisting aloft the glass pitcher from a Vitamix blender filled nearly to the brim with a dark-flecked violet slurry.  
  
“I’m good, thanks.” Historia’s spur-of-the-moment smoothie recipes always turned out delicious—it was near impossible to fuck up fruit and ice and yogurt—but Annie just wasn’t in the mood. Actually, she was thinking about going to bed early rather than hanging on for a second round of almost unbearable musical performances. The only thing keeping her on the sofa right now was an incurable desire to hear Bertolt sing again.  
  
Ymir shrugged, smirking. “Suit yourself. Just leaves more for me and Longshanks here.” Bertolt was standing just close enough to her so she was able to snag him by the elbow and yank him to her side. “Isn’t that right, Bertl?”  
  
“Uh, right,” Bertolt said, trapped and smiling submissively.  
  
Dragging him like a dog on a leash, Ymir stepped back to the bar and divvied up the contents of the pitcher between four glass tumblers. She grabbed two of them—amazingly, without once unlinking her arm from Bertolt’s—and left two for Reiner and Historia, who were sitting on high barstools, laughing their way through some otherwise inaudible conversation. Then she guided Bertolt to the sofa.  
  
For reasons still not fully clear after two months of living together, Ymir was excessively fond of Bertolt. She said he reminded her of herself when she was younger, but Annie failed to see any parallels between the two of them besides a history of alcohol addiction. Despite being his AA sponsor—and in that capacity having a degree of responsibility for him—the way Ymir treated Bertolt could best be described as how a cool older sister treats a dorky little brother, loved but way too much fun to tease to ever leave alone.  
  
“Sit with me, Bertl,” said Ymir smoothly, effortlessly transferring one of the tumblers full of smoothie from her hand to his. “Talk with me.” Instead of waiting for Bertolt to respond, she sat and pulled him down next to her.  
  
Annie pretended to be engrossed in her crossword puzzle as she listened to them, darting her eyes across the c-shaped sofa sporadically and hoping they didn’t notice. She didn’t like the wolfish way Ymir looked at Bertolt, the little prods and shoves Ymir used to control him. It didn’t matter to Annie that Ymir’s interest wasn’t sexual or romantic, her behavior towards Bertolt was predatory and that was not okay.  
  
Ymir’s free hand walked on fingertips across the back of the sofa and seized Bertolt by the shoulder, making him tense up abruptly. “Lovely singing as always, Bertl. That’s quite a voice you’ve got going for you. Have I ever mentioned how much I like it?”  
  
Bertolt let out a nervous chuckle, looking very much like a rabbit trying to have a conversation with a fox. “Once or twice,” he said. “But I am flattered every time, so thank you.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” said Ymir, flapping her hand as if she were already bored with his answer to the question she had asked. She took a deep quaff of smoothie and then licked the clinging purple mustache from her lip.  
  
At this point Annie was no longer stealing intermittent glances but watching nonstop, furtively from behind her propped up magazine. Her nerves were lit, prepared to react, to what she didn’t know—she only knew that Ymir was acting particularly dubious tonight.  
  
“I’m just going to cut to the chase, Longshanks,” Ymir said. “Me and Historia are super happy together—you’ve seen it with your own eyes so you already know.”  
  
“Yes,” said Bertolt between small sips of smoothie.  
  
“Well, after a year of marriage, talk has turned to starting a family. You know, children. Now I already know what you’re going to say next, and you’re right, we will make awesome parents.”  
  
This was cutting to the chase? It sounded more like rambling. And what did any of this have to do with Bertolt? Annie’s suspicions crept higher.  
  
“It’s not that we’re against adoption,” Ymir continued. “We just really want to have the full motherhood experience, from the very beginning, pregnancy and everything. There’s just one teensy problem—kind of an obvious one—which is that both of us are women. In order to make a baby, we will need some outside help—a friendly donation, so to speak. So, uh, do you see where I am going with this, Bertl?”  
  
Annie’s blood went icy as she immediately understood what Ymir was proposing. She watched Bertolt with held breath, waiting for his reaction.  
  
“Uh—” Bertolt’s eyes were aimed down at his glass tumbler and his forehead gleamed with perspiration. Rather than answering, he took a long gulp of smoothie.  
  
“In case it wasn’t already clear, I’m asking you for your sperm so I can impregnate my wife,” said Ymir, causing Bertolt to choke and sputter, wild-eyed, smoothie spattering the hand he put up to cover his mouth.  
  
At the same moment, Annie’s grip on her magazine tightened so ferociously her fingernails tore through several layers of pages like talons. Her heart slammed against her throat. She’d already figured it out, but was not prepared to hear Ymir say it so unambiguously.  
  
“You want my—” Bertolt cheeks glowed a hot pink—he couldn’t say the word. “But _why_? I mean, you just said why—but why _mine_? You two are celebrities. Why not get some handsome Hollywood bigshot to, uh, to—you know?”  
  
Unfazed by his strong reaction (and oblivious to Annie’s), Ymir leaned back comfortably and said, “It’s simple, really. Since Historia wants to carry our first, we’re looking for a donor who is comparable to a male version of me. That’s you. Not a perfect match, obviously, but close enough—dark hair, olive complexion, great voice, amusing personality. And most importantly, I like you. You’ve got good genes, Bertl, and you shouldn’t let them go to waste.”  
  
The look on Bertolt’s face was a complicated mix of surprise, embarrassment, and nervousness. “That’s, uh— That’s quite a proposal, Ymir.” The tumbler in his grasp shook and he added his other hand to steady it but it still jittered faintly. “I’m flattered, of course, but I’m going to need some time to think about it.”  
  
His eyes flicked over to Annie for just a tiny fraction of a second but it was enough to stop her breath in her chest and she immediately looked down at her lap again. Ymir’s last sentence was stuck in her head, echoing over and over and sending a steady current of unnamable emotion like a chemical through her bloodstream. What was this? Anger? Irritation? It was definitely something close to both of those and it was unrelenting. Suddenly Annie’s tear-ducts were burning and she knew she had to get out of there.  
  
“Of course, of course,” Ymir was saying when Annie stood up mechanically and interrupted her.  
  
“I’m going to bed,” Annie said, with great care to sound cool and casual, like it had nothing to do with their conversation, like she hadn’t even been listening to them.  
  
Ymir blinked dully at her. “Eh? But it’s only nine o’clock. You really aren’t fun at all, are you?”  
  
Annie drew a deep, calming breath, coupling it with a shrug of the shoulders so it would come off as an unperturbed sigh. “I guess not.”  
  
“You’re really going?” Bertolt asked, looking vaguely disappointed.  
  
“Goodnight, Bertolt,” Annie said, ignoring the warm ache his expression put in her chest. “Thanks for the puzzle answer. And, uh, your singing was beautiful. It always is.” She turned away before his face could register any additional reaction and addressed the rest of the room. “Goodnight, everyone. See you in the morning.”  
  
“Sweet dreams,” Reiner called after her.  
  
“So early,” Historia said in her darling little voice.  
  
But Annie was already on the stairs, trudging up to the second floor, and didn’t stop to look back.  
  
The grandeur of the Reisses’ home meant their three summer guests each got a private room. The last time Annie had a room all to herself had been St. Louis and it had been about a third the size of this one. She wasn’t used to being surrounded by so much space—space in the bed, which was queen-sized, and then more space around the bed.  
  
The privacy was nice, though, and as soon as she was inside and the door was shut behind her she peeled up her shirt and pushed down her shorts and left them both where they landed on the floor. She shed her bra then dug an oversized men’s t-shirt from the bottom drawer of the dresser and slipped it on. Only after she was wearing it did she realize it wasn’t one of her usual sleeping shirts—that is, a hand-me-down from Reiner—but one of Bertolt’s, mislaid in some laundry room sorting error. Impulsively she pulled the collar up to her nose and took a long inhale, but it just smelled like Gain detergent.  
  
Annie sighed. It was only nine and she really wasn’t tired yet, so she climbed into the disheveled nest of sheets and pillows that was her bed and just lay there on her back, staring up at the clean white ceiling. She was unhappy, though her reasons were murky, and she wished she could just empty her brain of all thoughts and all feelings for the rest of the evening.  
  
After a few minutes spent lying completely motionless, trying to think about absolutely nothing, she sighed and gave up, one hand slipping under the hem of Bertolt’s t-shirt to touch the scar on her belly. It was just a few inches long, a puckered silver-pink line running right-of-center down her lower abdomen, marking the spot where the surgeon had cut her open in order to put back together the crushed wreck of her pelvis and internal organs. During her blackest moods after the accident, she’d wondered if there had been any recognizable remains extracted from her body of the tiny baby that was growing there, and even though she’d eventually put such morbid curiosity behind her, not a day went by that she didn’t think about the child she never had.  
  
 _“You’ve got good genes, Bertl, and you shouldn’t let them go to waste.”_  
  
Replaying Ymir’s words in her head sent a fresh dose of that dark, ill-defined emotion out to all points of Annie’s wired being. The idea of Ymir and Historia having Bertolt’s baby infuriated her, filled her with rage and distress and longing—but why? Because she was jealous? Because if she couldn’t have his baby nobody else could either? Was that it? Was she really that petty?  
  
Yes. That _was_ it. Self-centered and irrational, but that was the core of it. She _was_ that petty.  
  
Bertolt did have good genes, even with a family history of alcoholism, and his children would be beautiful. His child with Annie would have been beautiful—she’d imagined so many times what their baby (usually a daughter in Annie's mind) would have looked like—but that child would never exist and Annie couldn't bear to see anybody else, even a couple as nice and loving as Ymir and Historia, have what had been so cruelly taken away from her.  
  
But what if Reiner finally got what he’d always wanted and began a serious relationship with Bertolt? What if the two of them got married and wanted children by a surrogate? Would she feel the same way then?  
  
Annie’s stomach twisted as she imagined the scenario. It wasn’t that she didn’t want Bertolt and her brother to be happy—they were the two people whose happiness mattered most to her—but the thought of them together and her all alone, them with Bertolt’s baby and her with just a ragged scar, was excruciating. It was double pain: the child she couldn’t have and the love she couldn’t have.  
  
Love—  
  
Why did that word come to her mind? Was it love that she felt for Bertolt? It was some sort of love, yes, but was it the same sort that Reiner felt for Bertolt? Was it _love_ love? Annie didn’t know. She didn’t know what _love_ love felt like. In Philadelphia she’d nursed a huge crush on Eren Yeager— he was handsome, fierce, and a hell of a fighter—but when she tried to compare it to what she felt for Bertolt, that crush seemed shallow and lust-driven and immature.  
  
If ReiBert happened—and recent Karaoke Nights had Annie fearfully convinced that it eventually would—Reiner would still be her big brother and love her just the same as always. But Bertolt would belong to Reiner in a way he didn’t belong to her and Annie didn’t know how she felt about that.  
  
What would Bertolt be to her if he was in a couple with her brother?  
  
What was Bertolt to her now? A friend, yes, and a one-time lover. But he was more than that. What else?  
  
Perhaps the most important question—the knife’s edge on which her heart precariously rested—was this: What did she want Bertolt to be to her?  
  
These were question Annie needed to think about—difficult questions, the answers to which might not please her. She had to figure them out soon, though, because one of these Karaoke Nights, Reiner’s songs would finally get through to Bertolt. Or maybe Reiner would stop pussyfooting around the matter and just Bertolt outright how he felt. Annie just hoped that by the time that happened—if it did happen—she would have the puzzle of her own heart solved.  
  
For a long time she lay awake, tracing the scar with her fingertip as she gazed up at the ceiling and imagined the stars that lay far, far above.

**Reiner**

  
Reiner had no illusions about his singing ability—though the others were charitable in applauding his efforts, he knew that he was actually quite terrible and probably always would be. And he was okay with that—some people just weren’t born to be singers. But when Bertolt was the one cheering for his karaoke performance, green eyes shining with pride, he truly wanted to believe it, because the joy he felt was real.  
  
His love for Bertolt had never been stronger or more certain before. Any doubts he may have had during that tumultuous year after leaving St. Louis had dissolved in the instant Bertolt stood in front of his father and told that monster to leave his home and his life forever. That was the moment Reiner had been waiting for, the moment when all of the courage and resilience he’d known were there inside Bertolt all along burst to the surface like a panoply of fireworks. In that moment, Reiner’s heart was sealed forever—Bertolt was the only one he ever wanted.  
  
Okay, so maybe his memory of that event was just a little bit distorted and romanticized—when he replayed it in his head it was like the emotionally-charged climax of a movie and made his heart race every time—but that untied sense of bliss was one of the side-effects of love.  
  
Unfortunately, other side-effects of love were not so pleasant: all of that bliss was tempered by surges of uncertainty and insecurity. Reiner loved Bertolt, but the other side of the equation remained unknown. It was true that during that epic confrontation, Bertolt had told Frank Hoover that he loved Reiner, but the way he’d said it did not suggest he meant it in the way Reiner wanted.  
  
Still, Reiner had not lost all hope—each new day, the possibility that Bertolt could return his feelings sparkled just a tiny bit brighter in his mind’s eye. It came from the tiniest of signals: the way Bertolt playfully tackled him when they were horsing around in the pool, and let embraces go on a beat longer than was strictly brotherly, and met his gaze while singing in a way that told Reiner this song was meant for him.  
  
It wasn't every song. All of Reiner’s songs were for Bertolt, of course, but only some of Bertolt’s felt like they were for Reiner. The rest, like tonight’s, were for Annie.  
  
 _“She can kill with her smile,_  
 _She can wound with her eyes._  
 _And she will ruin your faith with her casual lies._  
 _And she only reveals what she want you to see._  
 _She hides like a child,_  
 _But she’s always a woman to me.”_  
  
How sad, Reiner thought as he closed his eyes and listened, that Annie didn’t know Bertolt was singing this for her. But when he considered it more carefully, he wasn’t really sad. Frustrated more like.  
  
From the time when she was just a toddler, Annie had always been one of the most perceptive people Reiner knew—such that even if she hadn't seen him stroking Bertolt's hair on the night of Dad's funeral, she would have figured out how Reiner felt by another means soon enough. But for some reason, she was hopelessly blind to Bertolt's feelings for her. Kind of like how Bertolt was hopelessly blind to Reiner's feelings for him. Exactly like it, really.  
  
It wasn't just the way Bertolt's pining mirrored his own that bothered Reiner, though. It was also the fact that, even in the rare glimmering chance that Bertolt had feelings for him, it wouldn't erase Bertolt's feelings for Annie. Reiner wasn't even sure he wanted Bertolt's feelings for Annie to be erased. After all, the moment that Reiner first fell in love with Bertolt was the same moment that Bertolt first fell in love with Annie. Deep inside him, Reiner still found Bertolt's unwavering love and devotion to his adored little sister to be a precious and wonderful thing. And try as he might, Reiner couldn't view Annie as a romantic rival. In Reiner’s head, Annie was permanently linked with the concept of "little sister,” an exclusive concept which was incompatible with that of "romantic rival."  
  
That said, watching Bertolt's feelings hit Annie like an impenetrable wall was growing wearisome and she probably thought the same about his feelings for Bertolt.  
  
If only they had the guts to just talk to each other like siblings should. But communication with Annie had become too strained since her accident. She was changed somehow: introspective, morose, and more withdrawn than ever. In some ways, her new attitude worried Reiner more than her period of promiscuity had, but it was another problem he didn’t know how to deal with, so he just tried to ignore it for now.  
  
When Bertolt finished singing, Reiner clapped wholeheartedly, even though the song hadn't been for him. Then Historia Reiss announced that it was time for smoothies and invited Reiner to help her with preparation. Always honored to spend a little time with his favorite starlet, he followed her to the bar like an eager pet.  
  
"Hmm..." Historia hummed, scratching her pixie-ish chin as she peered into the freezer behind the bar. "Do you think cherry and papaya go together?"  
  
"Don't look at me," Reiner said. "I'm just about the least picky eater in the world. And that goes for beverages, too. Anything you whip up, I'm guaranteed to love it."  
  
Historia let out a very charming giggle. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were flirting with me, Reiner Braun."  
  
“Heh. I'm still starstruck, I guess," he said. "I mean, when I saw you in _The Empress_ , I didn't think it was possible that I would meet you in real life. You're Krista Lenz, the movie star. You're like a goddess to us mere mortals."  
  
"Oh stop it," she chuckled, flapping a hand at him. "You give me too much praise, especially now that you've been here for a while and seen that around the house I'm just plain old Historia Reiss."  
  
It had taken Reiner a week to stop calling Historia by her stage name, longer than Bertolt and Annie, but he was the biggest Krista fan of the three of them. Her big movie debut hit theaters shortly after the trio arrived in Nevada and Connie and Sasha had dragged their new trailer-mates to see it. While everyone, even dour Annie, enjoyed the movie, Reiner had been absolutely spellbound by the beautiful young woman in the leading role. After that, Reiner had followed Krista’s career in magazines like a devoted fanboy, gobbling up news of future projects which poured in as, practically overnight, she had become one of Hollywood’s most in-demand stars. But details of her personal life were scant.  
  
Reiner never would have ever guessed that the Goddess of the Silver Screen, Krista Lenz, was Ymir's wife.  
  
"And you are _not_ a mere mortal, Reiner," Historia added. "You are like the big brother I never had."  
  
Reiner raised an eyebrow coyly at her. “Oh yeah? Then how come I'm three years younger than you?"  
  
She didn't look older than him—honestly she didn’t look any older than nineteen—and Reiner was perfectly okay with her thinking of him like an older brother, but he couldn't think of her like a younger sister because that was Annie's role. The conceptual link went both ways: Annie could only be his little sister and his little sister could only be Annie (even if, from an objective standpoint, Historia did possess more appealing sisterly qualities than Annie). Rather than a sister, as Reiner had gotten to know Historia on a personal level, he'd come to think of her as the woman he'd want to marry if he were into women and she were into men.  
  
While Historia was tossing together tonight's smoothie—and the zeal with which she put ingredients into that blender was almost to the point of literal tossing—Reiner retrieved four glass tumblers from the cabinet and set them on the bar. Not five, because he could tell that Annie was not in the smoothie mood this Karaoke Night.  
  
The second the blender stopped, when the concoction was pulverized to a frothy purple state, Ymir snagged the pitcher by the handle and twisted it from the stand. “Hey Annie, you want in on this?” she called out.  
  
“I’m good, thanks.”  
  
The decline came as no surprise to Reiner. And as no surprise to Ymir, who just shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.” She’d quickly grown accustomed to Annie's cold demeanor and now regarded it with wry amusement.  
  
Bertolt, on the other hand, occupied a special place in Ymir’s heart.  
  
Though she liked Annie, and Reiner was the one she'd initially formed a bond with, it was plainly obvious that Bertolt was her favorite. She enjoyed teasing him immensely, but it was in an affectionate sort of way, a bit like how Reiner teased Annie, but to a far greater extent because Ymir was much better at teasing and Bertolt gave much more adorable reactions.  
  
Like Bertolt, Ymir was an alcoholic, which came as a surprise to Reiner since he'd met her in a bar, drinking what must have been one of her last drinks before getting sober. She’d been dry for two years now, and upon learning of Bertolt's addiction immediately volunteered to be his Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor. Her alcohol-free personality, though, was still just the same as Reiner remembered her: brash, trenchant, and smirky—essentially the complete opposite of Bertolt, which made her affinity for him all the stranger.  
  
She poured out the smoothie hastily, slopping it into the glasses unequally and dripping lavender gobbets of it on the bar. Then she grabbed two and dragged Bertolt, her “Longshanks,” back to the couch as Reiner watched after him longingly.  
  
"Bertolt is pretty thick, isn't he?" Historia said, prompting Reiner to turn and look at her. She was holding her glass with two hands and blinking her long-lashed blue eyes between dainty sips.  
  
"Not in all matters," Reiner said. “He’s very book smart. I mean, he did know that Rabbit dude for Annie's puzzle."  
  
"But he hasn't put it together that you’re in love with him."  
  
Reiner's face flushed hot at the remark. He'd never told Historia explicitly that he was in love with Bertolt, but he figured she knew, if not from her own powers of deduction then more directly from her wife. Still, Reiner had an immediate physiological reaction to her bringing up the subject. The hottest rising star in Hollywood was talking about his romantic life—how could he not blush?  
  
"If he has, he's keeping it to himself," Reiner said, and loosed a tiny sigh. “Probably because he doesn't return the feeling."  
  
"Don't say that, Reiner." One hand, small as a child’s and still cold from the glass, reached out and touched his knuckles. "I don't think it's like that at all. I think Bertolt is the type who doesn't even consider the possibility that somebody could be in love with him."  
  
Reiner watched her face as she said this, listening to the words but also reading the unsaid things held back in her eyes. Reiner knew her backstory now: she was the illegitimate daughter of a conservative Republican senator. A bastard and a lesbian to boot, her very existence was seen as a deplorable scandal and she was ostracized, even as a child, as if she had chosen the circumstances of her birth. Historia was speaking about Bertolt now, but her theory was rooted in her own experiences—she understood how Bertolt felt because she’d been in that place too.  
  
“Shit,” Reiner muttered, not in anger or irritation—not really in a profane way at all—but in sadness, because thinking that Bertolt felt that way was heartbreaking. “I believe you, Historia. It’s just hard for me to imagine. You know? Because I’m crazy about him.”  
  
“I know,” she said, wearing the kindest smile she’d ever put on for him (which was really saying something since all of her smiles were kind). “But if you ever want him to know it, I think you are going to have to tell him face-to-face. Spill your heart out to him.”  
  
“Heh, you make it sound so easy.” Reiner paused and took a swill of smoothie because his throat had suddenly gone dry and sore. “Like I could just confess my love and we’d live happily ever after.”  
  
Historia let out a gentle sigh. “No, I admit that it won’t be easy. Taking a chance on love is one of the hardest, scariest things of all. It means jumping off an emotional cliff.”  
  
“Yeah, into shark infested waters,” said Reiner. “With the sharks being horrible, soul-crushing rejection.”  
  
“True, true. The stakes are high. But if you hold back, you could be missing out on the great love of your life. I knew I was risking my heart when I dropped out of high school to follow a scrappy aspiring writer to California and it was the most terrifying, reckless thing I’ve ever done. But it was also the best thing I’ve ever done. If I hadn’t done it, I would never be as happy and fulfilled as I am now.”  
  
Reiner took a few seconds to consider her testimonial, which was cliched but heartfelt. “But it might not go so well for me. I’d rather keep Bertolt as just a friend than lose him.”  
  
“Lose him?” there was a hint of a laugh in Historia’s voice. “You really think you would lose him as a friend if he didn’t return your romantic feelings? I’ve only known him for a few months but even I can see that Bertolt is not going to abandon you for any reason.”  
  
She was right, but that still didn’t mean the task was easy. “There’s also Annie to consider,” Reiner said, knowing that he probably sounded like he was just making excuses at this point even though it was a legitimate complication.  
  
Historia tilted her pretty head to the side and said, “Consider how? It’s obvious that Bertolt loves her—well, obvious to everyone except her—but that doesn’t really have any bearing on whether or not he loves you. It is possible to love more than one person. And if Bertolt does love both of you, maybe it’s just a matter of who loves him back. That’s you, Reiner.”  
  
“But what if Annie loves him, too.” It was the first time Reiner had said this aloud, and though he said it very softly, finally giving words and voice to the fear made him realize how heavy it had been in the back of his mind.  
  
“You shouldn’t let that stop you,” said Historia. “I know you care very much about your sister, but one of the most important things I have learned—something Ymir taught me—is that you can’t live your life for somebody else’s sake. If you give up your chance at love based on the possibility that Annie might love him, too, you’ll only wind up resenting her. You won’t feel good about it.”  
  
“I—“ Reiner fumbled with his words, his train of thought disrupted by her unexpected sponsorship of acting in self-interest. He already knew the real Historia was not the martyr image she projected to the press as Krista, but it was still surprising to hear her make such a bold endorsement. “What if Bertolt belongs with Annie?”  
  
“And what if Bertolt belongs with you?” She flashed him an enigmatic look with just a hint of a challenge in it.  
  
The discussion stalled; Reiner didn’t know how to respond. He wanted to say that he couldn’t possibly seek his own happiness if it came at the expense of Annie’s or Bertolt’s, which was the sort of sentiment that Krista would espouse, but he wasn’t sure it was entirely true. He really was a mere mortal and the raw truth was that he wanted to be with the person he loved.  
  
Motion from the center of the room drew his eyes over to the sofa, where they had been glancing periodically throughout the conversation. Annie was standing and beginning to walk towards the stairs.  
  
“Goodnight, everyone,” she called over towards the bar. “See you in the morning.”  
  
Unsurprised to see her retire, Reiner responded with, “Sweet dreams.”  
  
“So early,” said Historia absently before returning her full attention to Reiner. “So what are you going to do?”  
  
“Huh?” He blinked at her, snapped suddenly back from the edge of distraction—he couldn’t hear what Ymir was saying to Bertolt over on the sofa, but whatever it was had gotten Bertolt looking particularly flustered.  
  
Historia’s eyes were glittery with encouragement. “Are you going take the plunge and tell Bertolt how you feel?”  
  
“I—I don’t know.” He felt stupid replying to her directness with such a vague, weak-hearted answer, but he truly didn’t know. So dauntless in the face of physical danger—from warehouse fights in Philly to treacherous construction sites in St. Louis to poking rattlesnakes out from under the trailer with a long stick in Nevada—Reiner didn’t know if he had the nerves to tell his best friend that he loved him.  
  
Setting her drink aside, Historia took one of his hands and clutched it in both of hers the way a kid would hold a treasured book. “I understand,” she said. “I won’t try to push you, Reiner, but know that if you decide to go for it, I will be silently cheering you on.”  
  
“Thanks, Historia,” Reiner said, smiling warmly at her as he resisted the urge to pat her on the head (because she was just too damn cute).  
  
“Alright, break time’s over. On to round two!” This was Ymir, who had materialized in front of them with her fists on her hips and a cool smile on her lips. She bowed before Historia and offered a hand in the princeliest of gestures. “Another duet, M’lady?”  
  
The offer instantly transformed Historia’s face from an ordinary actress-model to the elated visage of a woman deeply in love. A twinge of envy coursed through Reiner like lightning, there and then gone in a fraction of a second, but definitely there. Instinctively, his gaze went to Bertolt, still seated on the sofa, head bowed and pensive.  
  
As if sensing that he was being watched, Bertolt looked up and his expression softened to the sweetest smile in the whole wide world.  
  
Even if Bertolt wouldn’t ever abandon him—and Historia was right about that, like she was right about most things—the risks were still high: Reiner’s heart might be crushed into a ruined pulp of pain, never to recover. But the possible reward was his heart’s greatest desire. Its only true desire. By all logical reasoning, the decision was a no-brainer.  
  
But when Reiner tried to imagine actually confessing to Bertolt, he felt like his knees had turned to Jell-o and his stomach was full of Pop-Rocks. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. His heart wasn’t ready. For now, it was enough just to have Bertolt by his side.  
  
Eschewing another love ballad, Reiner chose “Volare” for his second song of the evening, and despite his off-key caterwauling and bungling of the lyrics, the others got into it and joined him on the chorus, which was the only section he pronounced correctly. When he finished, everyone whooped and cheered for his valiant attempt.  
  
“Way to go, Burly,” Ymir said mirthfully. “I can’t speak for anyone else, but I don’t think Karaoke Night is truly complete without horribly mangled Italian. All the better when it’s sung by a great big musclebound gay guy.”  
  
“Uh, thanks,” said Reiner, a weak flush climbing his neck. He didn’t mind his sexuality being mentioned, and everyone in the room was already well aware, but it still made him self-conscious when she said it like that.  
  
They stayed up well past midnight, singing, but as the night wore on, spending more time talking and laughing in between songs. To Reiner it almost felt like he and Bertolt were having a double date with Ymir and Historia, which should have made him over-the-moon with joy, yet something was missing. A crucial ingredient to his happiness was still lacking in this scenario and it wasn’t until his eyes drifted to the vast stretch of empty space on the sofa that he realized what it was: Annie. Being with Bertolt was his heart’s desire, but Reiner would never be wholly content without Annie around and neither would Bertolt—Annie belonged with them.  
  
But Annie was drifting farther and farther away and Reiner knew he couldn’t keep ignoring the problem.  
  
Tonight was not the night to deal with it, though. Tonight was for fun—and it still was fun, even if Annie’s absence left a hole, because he was with the man he loved.  
  
Eventually tiredness crept in and seized them all, forcing the fun to wind to a natural close. Reiner and Bertolt bid good night to Ymir and Historia before heading for their bedrooms on the second level, ascending the stairs side-by-side with slow, heavy steps. The upstairs was utterly silent, which didn’t necessarily mean that Annie was asleep in her room, only that she wasn’t making any sounds or moving around. Still, it felt like it was just the two of them, standing motionless at the end of the hallway.  
  
“I know you think I’m humoring you, Reiner, but I really do mean it when I say your singing has improved.” Bertolt touched his shoulder as he said this, sending a delicious pulse of heat out from the point of contact. They exchanged offhand touches all the time but Reiner still felt a spark every time, like his heart would melt in his chest.  
  
“Honestly I wouldn’t care if you were humoring me, Bertl, I’d still be happy to hear it.” Reiner chortled. He heard his voice come out light and friendly, like he was just saying that he enjoyed receiving praise. Like there wasn’t any subtext lingering beneath the words. _Any words of kindness from you go straight to my heart because I love you, Bertolt. I love you so damn much._  
  
Bertolt’s mouth stretched in a soundless, catlike yawn—too cute for his own damn good, Reiner thought. “Well, I’m bushed so I’m going to crawl in bed. It was a fun night, though. Shame Annie left early.”  
  
“Yeah,” Reiner sighed, not just because he agreed about Annie, but because they’d arrived at his least favorite part of the night: when he went back to his bed alone. Privacy really didn’t mean much to him, but it wasn’t as if he could have refused the room Ymir had offered him and insisted that he and Bertolt remain together.  
  
“I’ll see you in the morning then. Sweet dreams, Reiner.”  
  
As Bertolt turned and began to peel away, Reiner’s hand reached automatically towards him but halted and pulled back before fingertips brushed elbow. At the same time, a single word slipped out from between Reiner’s lips. “Wait.”  
  
Bertolt paused and turned his face, peaceful and sleepy-eyed, back to Reiner. “Was there something else you wanted to say?”  
  
Reiner felt like a deer caught in the headlights, paralyzed. His stupid mouth and his stupid body had reacted against his brain’s wishes and tried to initiate a conversation he wasn’t ready to have. Or was he? Were his instincts correct? Was this the moment? Courage often happened on a subconscious level—maybe his mouth and body knew better than his brain.  
  
“I need to tell you—” This was so uncool, so un-Reinerlike. “I just wanted to tell you how unbelievably proud I am of you, Bertolt.” It was a nice save, effective because it was true—Reiner was incredibly proud of Bertolt and did want to tell him. Still, something inside Reiner pinched in disappointment over the fact that he’d held back what he really wanted to say.  
  
“Thank you, Reiner,” Bertolt said, and the expression that settled on his face as he did was radiant.  
  
“I mean it,” said Reiner. “The way you’ve taken control of your life after such hardships—it really inspires me.”  
  
Bertolt’s smile was liquid, molten sweetness, spreading across his handsome, adorable face. “That makes me so happy to hear. After all, you’re half of the reasons I am able to do it.”  
  
The statement wasn’t hard to decipher: the other half was Annie. It pained Reiner, though, that Bertolt didn’t even consider his own reserve of inner strength. Of course he didn’t—Bertolt really couldn’t see how amazing he was.  
  
Historia’s words resonated in Reiner’s recent memory: _“Bertolt is the type who doesn't even consider the possibility that somebody could be in love with him.”_  
  
But Reiner did love Bertolt. He loved Bertolt so much. So why couldn’t he just say it already?  
  
“I’m going to make it up to you one day,” Bertolt went on to say. “The strength you’ve given me—one day I am going to pay you back, Reiner. You and Annie. I know I’ve caused you both so much trouble and grief, but you’ve stuck with me and that is not a small thing. I will think of a way, I promise.”  
  
“Well shit, Bertl, that’s—” But Reiner didn’t have a word for what it was because he didn’t know what it was. Touching? Heartbreaking? Misinformed? “Don’t put yourself out for it,” he said, adopting the comfortable, brotherly tone of most of their conversations. “Me and Annie—we, wouldn’t be here if we didn’t want to, so don’t feel like you owe us anything.”  
  
“Right,” said Bertolt. He grinned and forced a chuckle. “I can at least let you go to get a night’s rest in peace. Sorry you had to put up with my flailing about for so many months, by the way. You endured it like a champ.”  
  
Actually, Reiner had _enjoyed_ it like a champ—he always slept well when Bertolt was near, lulled by the sough of breathing and the rustling of blankets and the heavy thumps of flopping limbs. He couldn’t say that, though, so instead he said, “You weren’t that annoying, Bertl. Though it is nice to have our own rooms.”  
  
“Yeah,” said Bertolt, casting his eyes in turn on each of the three doors evenly spaced along one side of the hallway before settling them back on Reiner. “Three people in three bedrooms. That’s the way it was meant to be.”  
  
“Right,” Reiner said without putting any meaning into the word. “Okay, good night for real this time, Bertolt.”  
  
“Good night for real, Reiner.”  
  
The exchange marked a decisive end to the evening, which meant that Reiner’s feelings would remain unspoken for another night. Reiner was okay with that, even though he felt like a coward in his heart. This wasn’t the right time—or at least that’s what he would lie awake in bed trying to convince himself.  
  
Pausing in front of the door to his room, hand already poised on the doorknob, Reiner turned his head to steal one last glimpse of the departing Bertolt and was momentarily confused to find him stalled midway down the hall. Then Reiner noticed where Bertolt was standing: in front of the middle door, fingers spidered delicately on its surface, eyes staring intently, not at it but through it, as if trying to see to the other side. To see Annie.  
  
Bertolt still loved her and probably always would.  
  
As he stepped into his dark room and flicked on the light switch, Reiner tried to envision a situation in which he and Bertolt were together and Annie had a place as well, but it was impossible without knowing how Annie really felt about Bertolt and how Bertolt really felt about him.  
  
With a sigh, Reiner closed the door behind him and proceeded to strip down to his boxer shorts, kicking his divested clothes into a pile on the floor. He didn’t bother putting on pajamas before climbing into bed and burrowing under the down comforter—the house was air-conditioned, but he still preferred to sleep in his underwear and now that he was sleeping all alone he didn’t have to worry about propriety. For a minute or two he mentally debated whether to snake a hand into his boxers and relieve himself of the tension accrued over another day of chaste touches with the man he ached for, but he was dog-tired—too tired even for that. So he turned off the light via the bedside switch and closed his eyes.  
  
Dog-tired and yet he couldn’t sleep.  
  
His body felt like a sack of wet cement but his brain would not shut down. His thoughts dwelled not on the day’s interactions with Bertolt (as they usually did), but on the conversation he’d had with Historia.  
  
 _“You can’t live your life for somebody else’s sake.”_  
  
Reiner was something of an expert at living his life for other people’s sakes. This was not a self-righteous assessment (he never thought of it as any sort of virtue) but was simply the only way he knew how to be. He was strong for other people—for Bertolt and Annie, always, but also for friends they’d met in their wandering—because they needed him to be strong.  
  
Or maybe, _maybe_ he only thought they needed him. Maybe being the strong one, brave, physically capable and emotionally dependable, was how Reiner obtained a sense of worth. And here he was baffled over Bertolt’s lack of self-esteem when his own was based on so tenuous a thing.  
  
He replayed once more, in illuminated detail, the scene of Bertolt telling off his deadbeat father. Bertolt had been strong for his own sake then and the result was amazing.  
  
Yes, Reiner decided, he wanted to start living his life for his own sake, he wanted to pursue his heart’s desire, and as he lay there in his bed in dark stillness, he made a vow to himself that he would somehow find the courage to tell Bertolt how he felt. He would find the right moment—and he prayed now that when that moment came along he would recognize it for what it was—and then he would at last say those words: “I’m in love with you.”  
  
Brain buzzing with resolve, firing excitement and fear out to his body, Reiner did the only thing he could think of to calm himself down and reached into the opening at the front of his boxers. As he stroked his cock hard, he twisted his face and buried it in his pillow, biting down on the fabric of the pillowcase as he loosed a soft, elated groan.  
  
“Bertolt—“

  
**Bertolt**

  
Bertolt was the sentimental type—moved to tears by books, saving every birthday card Annie and Reiner ever gave him—but that didn’t mean he was unaware of how cheesy Ymir and Historia’s duets were. He knew their performances were maudlin and loved them nonetheless because he loved love and the message underpinning every cornball imitation of Marvin and Tammi, Sonny and Cher, Captain and Tennille, was that these two people were so in love it made them act like idiots.  
  
Tonight he watched their rendition of “If I Could Build My Whole Around You” with a wistful smile on his face. He wanted what they had. Two people who love each other and are devoted to each other struck Bertolt as a very pleasant set-up, definitely better than his current situation.  
  
He was in love with two people, neither of whom could possibly consider him as anything more than a friend. These days he sometimes wondered if Annie even thought that much of him, but then he remembered the sound of her quiet voice speaking up at his intervention in Nevada and he felt reassured that she still cared for him in some fashion. And she still did like to listen to him sing.  
  
Furtively, he glanced over at her on the far curve of the sofa, her compact body curled in on itself like a prawn. She had her eyes aimed attentively down at the L.A. Times crossword puzzle so she wouldn’t notice his fleeting, longing looks. Somehow, in all of these years they’d been friends, Annie had never noticed the way Bertolt looked at her. Not even when he’d been inside her. Still, he loved her. He would love her until the day he died.  
  
And then there was Reiner. Bertolt’s friendship with Reiner, though it had been through some peaks and troughs, was never in doubt. They would always be friends. Only now Bertolt felt something more. It was right after the confrontation with his father that Bertolt realized that he had feelings for Reiner that were different from friendship, and in the days since, as they’d grown closer and closer with each passing day, he’d only become more certain of it. He was in love with Reiner.  
  
It probably should have disturbed him, or at the very least surprised him, to make such a discovery. Bertolt had never once thought of himself as homosexual. Then again, he’d never thought of himself as heterosexual, either. He’d been in love with Annie since before he had any notion of sexual orientation; the fact that she was female was incidental. Now he knew that he also loved Reiner, who had always been there beside him, and rather than being stunned that he could feel that way about a man—about _anyone_ besides Annie—it felt like a deep, calm breath of epiphany: _Ah, of course. It was always going to be both._  
  
In the end it didn’t matter, though, because the chances that either one of them could ever be in love with him were equally dismal. For as long as he’d been sober Bertolt had been fighting tooth and nail against his inclination towards self-loathing. He was fortified by AA, with all its affirmations and mantras, and even more so by the knowledge that Annie and Reiner believed he had worth. But while he no longer hated himself as he once had, Bertolt knew he was not lovable. Likable, yes—he didn’t doubt that Annie and Reiner both liked him plenty. But love—love was a different element, one he’d never been conditioned to receive. Bertolt didn’t know how to be lovable.  
  
After Ymir and Historia finished their duet to a small burst of applause, Annie (who had not contributed to that burst) said, “Another splendid rendition. By any chance, do either of you know the name of a ‘Literary Rabbit,’ eight letters, starting with A?”  
  
Bertolt wasn’t sure if he was the only one who’d heard the question or just the only one who knew the answer, but after a minute passed and nobody said anything—except for Reiner eagerly volunteering to sing the next song—he went ahead and provided it. “Angstrom.”  
  
“Huh? Angstrom?” Her unguarded expression held traces of surprise and gratitude and the sight of it filled Bertolt’s belly with a delicious warmth, like he’d just finished a mug of cocoa.  
  
“That’s the answer to your puzzle clue: ‘Literary Rabbit.’ It’s Rabbit Angstrom, the protagonist from John Updike’s novel series.” He’d only read the first one, _Rabbit Run_ , but that was enough to know the answer. Even if all Annie ever needed from him were crossword answers, he would keep giving them to her (the ones he knew at least) for as long as he lived.  
  
Reiner began to sing “I Can’t Fight This Feeling Any Longer,” by REO Speedwagon, and though his voice was not pretty, Bertolt loved to listen to it. It was Reiner’s passion that left an impression, the rawness of his emotion pushing out each syllable. Every Karaoke Night, Reiner’s off-key love songs—he always chose love songs and was always off-key—filled Bertolt with a sense longing, bittersweet and achingly beautiful.  
  
It had been two-and-a-half years since since the death of Marcel B. Vogel, the young man Bertolt was now wholly convinced had been Reiner’s lover, and though the two of them never discussed it, Bertolt knew all of these ballads had to be inspired, at least in part, by that tragic love affair. For whatever private reasons, Reiner couldn’t talk about his dead boyfriend so he channeled his emotions into Karaoke Night and thus worked through the lingering grief.  
  
Really Bertolt only half wished that Reiner would talk to him about Marcel; the other half was too scared that any conversation on the topic of past romantic partners would end with him confessing what had happened between him and Annie. He couldn’t even imagine how Reiner would react if he found that out. Still, for two best friends who were closer than brothers, it was a little bizarre that they never spoke about matters of the heart. Maybe it was because neither of them had much of a love life to speak of: Bertolt only had Annie, who he couldn’t talk about, and as far as he knew, Reiner only had Marcel, who was dead.  
  
As he listened to Reiner’s straining vocals, Bertolt wondered what it was like to lose somebody that you love. The only time he’d felt anything close to that had been in St. Louis when he’d gotten a call at work from Reiner telling him Annie had been in a car accident. The news was a galvanic kick which sent him sprinting from the used bookstore in the middle of his shift, abandoning books, customers, and cash register, without any concern for keeping his job. All that mattered to him in that instant was that Annie was okay, and if she wasn’t—just the thinnest breath of that thought, the whispered, sinister intimation of a world without Annie, turned his heart to a fragile shell of ice, threatening to to collapse in shards even as it pumped furiously to sustain his mad dash to the emergency room.  
  
Thank the universe, Annie survived her ordeal, so Bertolt didn’t have to learn the spiraling depth of the pain he’d so briefly glimpsed. He hoped he never had to.  
  
Sitting on the sofa, surrounded by the two people he loved more than anything else in the world, it struck him how lucky he was. To have both of them in his life, sticking with him through his tribulations and theirs, was more than he could ask for. He loved Reiner and Annie so much. Even if they didn’t love him the way he loved them, it was enough just to have them by his side. He had no right to want anything more than to never lose them. He should be content.  
  
He was content.  
  
Well, he wasn’t _dis_ content.  
  
When Reiner’s song ended, Bertolt took the mic and sang “Always a Woman,” for Annie. He didn’t know if she realized it, but he sang primarily for her, a romantic but probably hopeless attempt to connect to her  again the way he had when he’d sung “Hallelujah” for her, and “Wonderwall” before that. The fact that she stuck around to listen, always with closed eyes and a becalmed expression, was all the encouragement he needed to keep singing.  
  
Reiner’s broad grin didn’t hurt either. If Annie was the enigmatic moon, Reiner was the brilliant sun—a golden _sol_ to match her platinum _luna_.  
  
Next came a break for the creation and imbibing of smoothies, which was a Hallowed Karaoke Night Tradition dating all the way back to two months ago when Historia casually asked if anyone wanted a smoothie and Ymir, upon tasting the elixir, had thumped her fist on the bar and declared it a Hallowed Karaoke Night Tradition. Bertolt was grateful for a respite from the music because it meant he might get a chance to talk to Annie. Maybe he could help her with more answers for her puzzle.  
  
Out of the corner of his vision, however, Bertolt spotted Ymir eying him with impish intent and he got the hint that he would not be granted an undisturbed moment with Annie. When Ymir inevitably volunteered him to help her supervise (a made-up task, no doubt), he put up no resistance, letting her tow him away from the sofa like a hapless child. If he fought against her will, he knew she would just hound him in a louder and more obnoxious fashion. Besides, it was only on the grounds that she was taking him from Annie that he objected at all, and that was an objection he wouldn’t dare voice.  
  
Difficult as she was, Bertolt liked Ymir. Her brassy, unapologetic candor was informed by a hypodermically sharp intellect which he greatly respected and admired. If she singled him out for teasing and cajoling (and boy did she), it was only because she was so skilled at reading the temperaments of others that she immediately picked him out as somebody she could use to amuse herself. But Bertolt never felt victimized by Ymir. He recognized the kernel of affection at the heart of all her jibes because, on a fundamental level, they understood one another. Bertolt and Ymir were both monuments to childhood trauma. Their constructions differed, but the basic materials were the same: abuse, neglect, anger, depression, and enough resilience to keep it all together somehow.  
  
Ymir was in a jolly mood at the moment, typical of Karaoke Night, and as soon as Historia finished blending the smoothie, she snatched up the pitcher and hollered, “Hey Annie, you want in on this?”  
  
Annie declined and Ymir shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said. “Just leaves more for me and Longshanks here. Isn’t that right, Bertl?”  
  
“Uh, right,” he said with a small smile. There really was no harm in letting Ymir speak for him when he had nothing of his own to say. And he wasn’t particularly bothered that almost immediately after dragging him over to the bar she reversed direction and dragged him back to the sofa, now clutching two glasses of smoothie.  
  
“Sit with me, Bertl." She handed him a smoothie. "Talk with me.” Her expression as she gave the command was a sly one, greedy, but not sexual—even if she weren’t married and gay, Bertolt would not misconstrue this look with that kind of interest. Ymir wanted something else from him.  
  
He sat down cautiously, but apparently not cautiously enough as an unanticipated squeeze of his shoulder caused him to flinch.  
  
Ymir kept her hold on him and inclined her body closer to his. “Lovely singing as always, Bertl. That’s quite a voice you’ve got going for you. Have I ever mentioned how much I like it?”  
  
She had, actually, several times, always shortly before asking him to complete some minor favor—finding a book in the hoarded garage, figuring out why a recipe didn’t work, untangling the knot of cable wires, that sort of thing—which always turned out to be a much bigger pain in the ass than she'd advertised. “Once or twice,” he said. “But I am flattered every time, so thank you.” It was true enough.  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” She flapped a hand. “I’m just going to cut to the chase, Longshanks. Me and Historia are super happy together—you’ve seen it with your own eyes so you already know.”  
  
Bertolt knew from past conversations with Ymir that a claim of cutting to the chase rarely heralded expediency. He sipped his smoothie and prepared for a drawn-out lead up to the reveal of what she wanted him to do for her. “Yes.”  
  
“Well, after a year of marriage, talk has turned to starting a family. You know, children. Now I already know what you’re going to say next, and you’re right, we will make awesome parents. It’s not that we’re against adoption. We just really want to have the full motherhood experience, from the very beginning, pregnancy and everything. There’s just one teensy problem—kind of an obvious one—which is that both of us are women. In order to make a baby, we will need some outside help—a friendly donation, so to speak. So, uh, do you see where I am going with this, Bertl?”  
  
“Uh—” He’d been bracing himself for some fiddly household chore, but the moment the word children slipped, his skin had gone to prickles and his eyes had sunk to his cup—the body following intuition down a path the brain feared to tread. But he knew. He knew what this was even before the word donation was mentioned, he just refused to comprehend it. He took a gulp of smoothie to distract himself.  
  
“In case it wasn’t already clear, I’m asking you for your sperm so I can impregnate my wife.”  
  
Bertolt sputtered, nearly choking on his mouthful of smoothie when he heard it aloud, stark and unambiguous, and his face blazed up like brazier. “You want my— But _why_? I mean, you just said why—but why _mine_? You two are celebrities. Why not get some handsome Hollywood bigshot to, uh, to—you know?”  
  
“It’s simple, really. Since Historia wants to carry our first, we’re looking for a donor who is comparable to a male version of me. That’s you. Not a perfect match, obviously, but close enough—dark hair, olive complexion, great voice, amusing personality. And most importantly, I like you. You’ve got good genes, Bertl, and you shouldn’t let them go to waste.”  
  
The actual quality of his genes was questionable and Ymir knew that better than anyone—she too was an alcoholic born of alcoholics, so why would she want to risk passing that legacy on to her child when she could choose any other donor? She was a successful writer and her wife a movie star; between the two of them they must have dozens of male friends far more qualified for the job. But Ymir had asked him, Bertolt Hoover, a chicken-hearted, twenty-year old runaway from Arlington Virginia without a job or even a high school diploma. It made no sense at all.  
  
“That’s, uh— That’s quite a proposal, Ymir. I’m flattered, of course, but I’m going to need some time to think about it.” His hands were shaking badly, his system overwhelmed by self-consciousness. He didn’t know why he said he’d think about it when he already knew he was going to say no. He had to say no. Ymir and Historia would make outstanding parents, no doubt about it, but they could do better than his gawky offspring.  
  
And it felt like there was another reason to say no only his brain was too mazed to suss out what it was.  
  
His eyes flicked instinctively to Annie and his cheeks bloomed with renewed heat.  
  
“Of course, of course,” Ymir said, paying no attention to how flustered he was. She may have been about to say more, but was interrupted by Annie standing up.  
  
“I’m going to bed,” said Annie.  
  
“Eh?” Ymir’s tone bore only the mildest trace of curiosity. “But it’s only nine o’clock. You really aren’t fun at all, are you?”  
  
“I guess not,” Annie said with a casualness that sounded forced.  
  
Bertolt felt a pang in his chest. He didn’t want her to leave, especially if it was because this conversation with Ymir was making her uncomfortable—it was making _him_ uncomfortable and he’d rather just end it than see Annie driven away. “You’re really going?”  
  
She looked at him and the stiff composition of her features eased just a touch. “Goodnight, Bertolt. Thanks for the puzzle answer. And, uh, your singing was beautiful. It always is.”  
  
The compliment wrapped him up like a sweater on a cold day. Unlike Ymir’s, Annie’s praise never came tied to a request for service. Annie didn’t want anything from him and yet he would gladly give her anything she asked. If only she would ask.  
  
But Annie never asked. She was selfless, utterly undemanding, and distant—anyone who asks for nothing from others was bound to be distant—and Bertolt yearned for her like a man wandering the desert yearns for water.  
  
As he watched Annie head for the stairs and start her ascent, he felt like a part of his own heart was pulling away from him.  
  
“She’s something,” said Ymir. “How does that old saying go again, Bertl? Early to rise, early to bed, makes a girl healthy but socially dead?”  
  
The saying went nothing like that; or maybe there was a saying that went like that, but it wasn’t one that Bertolt had ever heard.  
  
“No pressure on you as far as the sperm thing goes,” Ymir said after a long pause. “Take all the time you need to decide. I get that it isn’t an easy decision to make—though the task itself, if you agree to do it, is one I doubt you’ll have any trouble with. The kid would be very loved, of course, and you could have a role, too, if you wanted. Like an uncle of sorts. But I don’t want you to say yes unless you are one-hundred percent, okay? And I won’t hold it against you if you say no.”  
  
This all came out in a brisk and businesslike fashion, which somewhat lessened Bertolt’s chagrin at the more embarrassing elements. Though she’d made light of what his contribution would entail, Ymir was absolutely serious in her request. Now Bertolt actually felt a little bit bad about telling her no, even though she said she wouldn’t hold it against him. But that was still his answer—the last lingering glance at Annie had settled his decision by clarifying that elusive other reason.  
  
Bertolt had never pondered the question of children in his future. Even before they’d run, his impending adulthood was such an unstable, abstract thing that he could only ever focus on short-term hopes and fears. But when Ymir’s proposition forced him to think about propagation, he’d discovered a secret fantasy he’d been hiding from himself in a recessed compartment of his psyche of him and Annie having a baby together.  
  
A baby with Annie, such a sweet and wonderful dream.  
  
It would never happen, of course, for so many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that Annie would never want his baby, but it was the underlying principle that mattered: if Bertolt ever did have children, it would be with somebody he loved and those children would be theirs. As long as he still held onto that silly fantasy, he wasn’t ready to be a donor.  
  
He hoped Ymir would understand. After quenching his throat with a gulp of smoothie, he came right out and said it.  
  
“Look, Ymir, you said I can take as much time as I need, but I don’t think it would be right for me to leave you dangling on a matter that is so important to you. I really am flattered that you would want me of all people to provide you—or, uh, I guess it would be Historia—with, uh, _that_.” Dammit, he was an adult now, why couldn’t he just say the word? Maybe because of the way Ymir was looking at him, with that tiny hint of a smirk at the corner of her lips. “But the truth is—and you’ll probably make fun of me for this—if I ever father children, I want to raise them with somebody I love.”  
  
“Oh,” said Ymir. Her faced smoothed out for a second and then scrunched back into a full, foxy grin. “You mean Annie?”  
  
“Wh-what? No!” He denied it, but he could feel the hot flush across his face and all down his neck and knew that Ymir must be seeing scarlet.  
  
She raised a dark eyebrow. “Reiner then? You’d have to use a surrogate.”  
  
“N-no! Not Reiner, either!” He’d been trying to keep his voice low, but it went a notch louder than intended on that protest and he swiveled his head towards the bar in panic to make sure Reiner hadn’t heard. He was relieved to see Reiner still fully engaged in his conversation with Historia and he turned back to Ymir.  
  
“I see,” she said, nodding her head sagely.  
  
What? What did she see? Bertolt didn’t like that smug look on her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.  
  
“Oh yes you do,” said Ymir. “I just can’t believe it took me so long to put it together. You’re in love with both of them, aren’t you, Bertl?”  
  
There it was, Ymir’s piercing arrow of truth, straight through the heart. Was there even any point in him trying to deny it when she knew she was right?  
  
“I’m right, aren’t I, Bertl?” she said when he said nothing. “These past two months I’d been trying to figure out which one of them you were into, but my Karaoke Nights so far were inconclusive. Turns out the error was mine: I was thinking in terms of ‘or’ when it should have been ‘and.’ In love with your two best friends, eh? Pretty ambitious. I wouldn’t think a guy like you had it in him.”  
  
“Shhh!” Bertolt hissed, because Ymir’s voice had risen steadily in the course of her monologue. “Could you keep it down? Reiner is right over there. He might hear you.”  
  
She lowered her voice and said, “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to spill the beans. But you do want him to know eventually, right?”  
  
“Of corse not!” Bertolt said, his whisper perhaps a bit too insistent. “Reiner can’t know how I feel. And neither can Annie.”  
  
Ymir pursed her mouth and cocked her head to the side as if she didn’t understand what was so complicated about the situation, but Bertolt knew she wasn’t that dumb. “Why not?” she asked. “Seems kind of pointless to be in love with somebody—or in this case two somebodies—if they’re never even going to know. Unless you’re afraid they’ll make you choose just one of them. Is that it, Bertl?”  
  
For two seconds he just stared at her, mouth hanging open in astonishment, then he snapped to, shaking his head vigorously, and said, “No. That’s not it at all. That doesn’t even make sense. Why would they make me choose unless— It’s not like that, Ymir. Reiner and Annie don’t like me like that. They couldn’t.”  
  
“And why not?” She sounded almost like she was trying to pick a fight, like she’d been offended by his claim.  
  
Bertolt delayed responding to turn and take another fond look at Reiner, still chatting up sweet little Historia “Reiner and Annie are special,” he said, returning to Ymir. “They’re both so strong and cool and smart and _beautiful_. And I’m, well—I don’t want to say a loser, because I’m striving so hard not to think of myself like that anymore, but I’m not like them. I’m damaged goods, Ymir.”  
  
“Bullshit!” she barked, prompting Bertolt to make an anxious shushing gesture with both hands. “Bullshit,” she repeated more quietly. “I wouldn’t have asked you for your little swimmers if I thought you were damaged goods, Bertl. You are smart and talented and gentle. And you’re cute, too, for a dude. Now if I can see all those qualities in you, don’t you think that Reiner and-or Annie, who know you much better and are both actually _attracted_ to men, might be able to see them as well?”  
  
“I—” he began, then paused and started again. “Well—”  
  
“Your one major failing,” Ymir continued, “is that you have such abysmal self-esteem. You’re completely blind to your own appeal.”  
  
Bertolt followed her logic, but none of it made any headway in convincing him that his friends could love him romantically. He’d have to tear down her argument by other means. “If either of them was interested in me, wouldn’t he or she have said something or done something by now? They aren’t timid like I am, those Leonharts—if they want something they go after it.”  
  
“Unless they’re scared,” said Ymir. “Even the bravest amongst us can be cowed by the risk of heartbreak.”  
  
“Yeah.” The word came out on a sigh as Bertolt thought about Reiner and Marcel, Annie and her many boyfriends. They hadn’t been afraid to enter those relationships. Was it because the stakes weren’t so high? Or were those lovers simply worth the risk?  
  
“What would you do if both of them did love you?” asked Ymir.  
  
Bertolt made a little snorting sound. “That is a silly hypothetical question and doesn’t merit answering.”  
  
She shrugged. “Fair enough. What if just one of them loved you? What if one of your two best friends just saw you as a best friend, but one of them was hopelessly, desperately in love with you? What would you do, Bertl?”  
  
“Eh?”  
  
“Could you be happy loving just one of them? Reiner or Annie? Which would you choose if you did have a choice? And would you tell him or her that you also love the other? Or would your feelings for the other fade away if you were happy with the one? Huh, Bertl?”  
  
The volley of questions was too much too fast. Bertolt pressed his half-full smoothie glass, still icy cold, against his forehead so the condensation could chill his sweaty skin. “Ymir, I don’t know. I don’t have the answer to any of those. They aren’t questions I’ve ever thought about.”  
  
“Maybe you should,” she said, as matter-of-factly as if she were recommending a new brand of toothpaste. “That way, if anything did happen, at least you’d be prepared.”  
  
“Unnecessary,” said Bertolt.  
  
“Couldn’t hurt,” said Ymir.  
  
Bertolt wanted to respond with something about how dwelling on scenarios that would never be was a good recipe for false hopes, but decided that made him sound too pitiful. Instead he said, “I can’t promise I’ll think about any of it. But I will think about thinking about it. Okay?”  
  
Ymir let out a single, staccato laugh. “Heh. Do whatever you like. It’s not for my benefit. I’ll tell you what I think, though.” When had she ever not? “I’m a one woman kind of woman, so I may be biased, but if I did love two people and had a chance to be happy with either one of them, I would take it and not dwell on the other. But that’s just me.”  
  
“Right,” said Bertolt. He did appreciate her advice, he just didn’t really know what to do with it. “Thank you, Ymir.”  
  
“No sweat, Longshanks,” she said and then chortled (because saying “no sweat” to a guy who perspires copiously was apparently too hilarious to pass up). She hoisted herself from the sofa and headed back to the bar and Bertolt heard her say, “Alright, break time’s over. On to round two!”  
  
His head was still swimming, but hopefully it wouldn’t affect his singing. Without Annie there, it would only be half as much fun anyways. One was better than none, though, right? Wasn’t that what Ymir had been implying?  
  
Karaoke Night: Round Two proved plenty of fun, especially Reiner’s stirring rendition of “Volare,” which Bertolt, Ymir, and Historia couldn’t resist joining in for the chorus. Bertolt still worried about Annie, though. It wasn’t so much that her presence added anything to these stochastically held group events—how could it when she never actually participated?—but her absence was felt by Bertolt and it was not a pleasant feeling.  
  
She’d always been like this, though, hadn’t she? Maybe not so much back when they still lived in Virginia, because she was too young and too supervised, but definitely by the time they were in Philly and she started dating Annie was fiercely independent. She always went her own way, even while remaining loyal to their trio. But something was different now. Now whenever Annie slipped away, it felt more like isolation than independence. Often Bertolt felt it when she was still in the same room, like some invisible part of her was very far away.  
  
He tried not to think about it for the rest of the night. He tried to think only about the fun the rest of them were having and about the way it made Reiner smile.  
  
At the end of the night (which had actually bled into the wee small hours of the morning), Bertolt and Reiner took the staircase together, wobbling slightly on their tired legs. Bertolt resisted the urge to brace himself on the pillar of muscles beside him—he was perfectly capable of walking on his own, even in this state, and he knew he was just looking for an excuse to make physical contact. Besides, there was always the odd chance he would knock Reiner over.  
  
They stopped at the top of the stairs and stood side-by-side in the hallway, Bertolt not wanting to make the first move of departure and Reiner likewise reluctant. It was amazing how this mansion could go from raucous to silent in such a short span, as if the place had been swallowed up by the jaws of some great nullifying cosmic entity.  
  
Bertolt had to say something. “I know you think I’m humoring you, Reiner, but I really do mean it when I say your singing has improved.” Here, he thought, a small touch would be appropriate, so he put a hand lightly on Reiner’s shoulder.  
  
Reiner responded in a benign tone, “Honestly I wouldn’t care if you were humoring me, Bertl, I’d still be happy to hear it.”  
  
A yawn chose that moment to make its silent escape from Bertolt’s mouth and he was embarrassed that Reiner saw, but by now his exhaustion was beyond the point where he could hide the symptoms. He’d wanted to bring up the subject of Annie with Reiner, get his opinion on his little sister’s detachment. Now it was too late for anything more than a quick mention. “Well, I’m bushed so I’m going to crawl in bed. It was a fun night, though. Shame Annie left early.”  
  
“Yeah,” Reiner sighed, which Bertolt took as an indication that he was worried about Annie, too.  
  
“I’ll see you in the morning then,” Bertolt said. He would have to try and find a way to talk to Reiner about Annie without exposing his sin, but not tonight. “Sweet dreams, Reiner.” Turning around, he began the sleepy trudge to his bedroom at the far end of the hall.  
  
“Wait.”  
  
The one-word utterance made Bertolt suddenly very aware of his heart beating in his chest—or maybe it was actually beating more strongly—and he spun cautiously to face Reiner. “Was there something else you wanted to say?”  
  
“I need to tell you—” said Reiner. Oh yes, Bertolt’s heartbeat had definitely kicked up a notch. “I just wanted to tell you how unbelievably proud I am of you, Bertolt.”  
  
There was a distinct deflating sensation inside Bertolt’s chest as his heart slowed back to its normal rhythm. And why had it been so excited in the first place? Had it actually been anticipating a love confession from Reiner? Was his heart really that stupid?  
  
The compliment wasn’t a letdown; it was wonderful, and Bertolt smiled his gratitude as he replied. “Thank you, Reiner.”  
  
“I mean it,” said Reiner. “The way you’ve taken control of your life after such hardships—it really inspires me.”  
  
This made Bertolt so happy to hear, but the emotion was tainted by a tiny flare of shame. He’d really only taken control of a few aspects of his life—the drinking, the repressed rage—and that still didn’t undo any of his mistakes. “That makes me so happy to hear,” he said anyways, because Reiner deserved only kindness. “After all, you’re half of the reasons I am able to do it.”  
  
Any progress he’d made was thanks to them.  
  
“I’m going to make it up to you one day,” he said. An odd feeling of confidence had started to flow in his veins and arteries—he wanted to live up to Reiner’s praise, not shrink from it. “The strength you’ve given me—one day I am going to pay you back, Reiner, you and Annie. I know I’ve caused you both so much trouble and grief, but you’ve stuck with me and that is not a small thing. I will think of a way, I promise.”  
  
He truly meant it, but after all the words were out of his mouth, it occurred to him how ridiculously dorky he must have sounded. It was the sort of thing a protagonist in a shonen manga would say, the tough-it-underdog out to save the world with the power of friendship.  
  
Reiner’s response fit that suspicion. “Well shit, Bertl, that’s—Don’t put yourself out for it. Me and Annie—we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t want to, so don’t feel like you owe us anything.”  
  
“Right,” said Bertolt, trying to act cool when he felt conspicuously uncool. He tried an insouciant laugh but it came out as an self-conscious chuckle. Talking to Reiner was never this awkward before that stupid conversation with Ymir. _Quick_ , his brain told his mouth, _say something witty_. “I can at least let you go to get a night’s rest in peace. Sorry you had to put up with my flailing about for so many months, by the way. You endured it like a champ.”  
  
His brain lamented. _You call that wit?_  
  
As always, Reiner responded with social aplomb. “You weren’t that annoying, Bertl. Though it is nice to have our own rooms.”  
  
“Yeah,” said Bertolt, he looked at the three doors in turn—they were all right next to each other, yet they felt so far apart inside. “Three people in three bedrooms. That’s the way it was meant to be.”  
  
“Right,” Reiner said. “Okay, good night for real this time, Bertolt.”  
  
“Good night for real, Reiner.” Bertolt wished they were going to the same place to sleep, and that Annie would already be there, curled in a ball and half-asleep, just awake enough to grumble at them for being too loud. But that wasn’t something he could say.  
  
Before he reached his room, he stopped in front of the door to Annie’s and placed his hand on it. She was on the other side, maybe fast asleep and maybe not. Only a few inches of hardwood separated her, but it may as well have been three feet of solid stone for how unreachable she was.  
  
He moved on after a minute, slipping into his room as quietly as a deer and shutting the door behind him. The room was too big (cavernous really) for him to be truly comfortable inside it. Admittedly, the queen-sized bed was excellent at accommodating his nightly limb-flailing, which benefitted his loved ones even more than himself. But with all that emptiness around him, all that nobody, it just didn’t feel like home.  
  
When this thought came to him he almost let out a wry little laugh. Home? As a runaway, he had no home, so he really shouldn’t be making such comparisons. But he did have a home. For Bertolt, home was not a place. Home was Reiner and Annie.  
  
Sighing, he peeled off his t-shirt and shucked off his jeans, then he folded them neatly and set them on a velvet upholstered slipper chair in the corner of the room. The furniture in the house was surprisingly tasteful, none of the over-the-top extravagance—like the room dressing from that hotel Frank Hoover had taken him to in Vegas—he’d expected to find in the home of a Hollywood couple. Bertolt’s bed was a rosewood four-poster, outfitted in soft, unprepossessing linens, and after putting on a thinned undershirt and a pair of old gym shorts he tucked himself in.  
  
His mind was still on Annie, a wall and a world away. One thing he was certain of was that whatever was wrong with her, he was the cause of it. Though he hadn’t asked her to do so, he was the reason that she’d left behind her mother and her friends, her life as an ordinary teenaged girl. His rage-blinded act of manslaughter set in motion the events that led them here and he’d made poor choices all along the way—poor choices about alcohol, poor choices about work, poor choices in his relationships.  
  
The car accident was the obvious turning point in Annie’s personality, but Bertolt had sensed her withdrawal since the morning after the two of them had sex. She was different, not dramatically, but enough to be a contributing factor in her accident—a melancholy distractedness. And it was Bertolt’s fault. That night in the motel room, he could have resisted Annie’s advances. He _should_ have. If he’d just taken five minutes to put reason before his feelings for her he would’ve easily foreseen how much she would regret it.  
  
Perhaps the worst part was that he’d failed on his promise to Reiner that he would always protect Annie. In that way he’d let them both down.  
  
He couldn’t undo it. Any of it. All he could do was try to think of some way to make things better for Annie and for Reiner.  
  
Ymir had urged him to consider the possibility that either of them could love him as he loved both of them and he had briefly been transported by the idea. But he realized now that what he needed to focus on was not being loved but loving, not passively, as he’d been doing up until now, but actively and selflessly.  
  
He’d made a new promise to Reiner in the hallway just now, and this one he was going to keep.  
  
Bertolt needed to think of something he could do for Reiner and Annie to bring them joy, make their lives better, heal their hearts if he could—though that might be outside of his power. It didn’t matter in what way they loved him, they had given up so much for him and still stayed with him. It was his turn now.  
  
The problem was, short of turning himself in to the police so they could go back to their home, Bertolt couldn’t think of anything he could do for them.  
  
Despite the late hour and the tiredness permeating his entire body, he lay awake in bed, plumbing the depths of his imagination for an answer, determined that it would come to him eventually.


	2. 中

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ymir and Historia announce plans for their Second Anniversary party. Annie is suspicious from the start, but once the main event, a treasure hunt, commences, even Reiner and Bertolt start to believe the couple has ulterior motives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say this fic was going to be divided into two sections? I meant to say three. Okay, really what happened is that the second section got past 15K words and I realized that it was only about half finished. So it came down to a choice between 3 more-or-less equal sections and getting to update sooner or 2 very unequal sections and not being able to update for several more weeks (since it will take some time to finish). I never know if long is good when it comes to fanfic. Part 7 of Dream Runners was always going to be the longest, I knew, but I didn't realizes it would wind up this long. I have a tendency to underestimate the density of my prose. Also, mixed POV is tough for me.
> 
> Thank everyone for the kudos, comments, readership, and support. Please let me know what you think.

Annie was still scrubbing the sleep from her eyes with fisted hands when she entered the kitchen—a veritable Food Network arena of marble and hardwood, brushed chrome appliances and lapis blue Le Creuset cookware—for breakfast.  
  
Ymir was stationed in front of the stove, which was built into one of those kitchen islands, a spatula in one hand as she tended to a cast iron skillet amid a mouthwatering aroma of egg and red pepper and onion. Her lank hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore a smile—not a smirk—as she scraped around the ingredients with the edge of her instrument.  
  
“The first to bed is the first to rise, I see,” she greeted without even looking up to confirm who had arrived.  
  
“Morning,” Annie mumbled. She’d been the first of her trio to go to bed but she doubted that she was the first to fall asleep, kept awake for hours by a seriously troubled mind. So the boys were still in bed, huh? Separate beds? Or had the great revelation happened after she’d left? Ugh. It was definitely too early for these kinds of thoughts.  
  
“Oh, good morning, Annie,” Historia chirped, lowering the newspaper that had completely concealed her diminutive presence at the kitchen table. “Did you sleep well last night?”  
  
“Yeah, I slept fine,” Annie lied. A good look at her face would have provided a more accurate answer—the pillowcase creases etching her cheeks, her dull eyes couched in puffy, periwinkled skin.  
  
“I didn’t know when anyone else would be up, so I just started making breakfast for me and Tori,” said Ymir. “I know Bertl tends to cook for your group, but since he’s still asleep, want me to throw in a couple more eggs?”  
  
Annie shrugged. “Sure, why not?” Not as good as Bertolt’s pancakes, perhaps, but better than her go-to back-up plan of toast.  
  
Most mornings, she and Bertolt and Reiner all got up long before Mrs. and Mrs. Reiss, so Bertolt made breakfast for the three of them. But mornings after Karaoke Nights were less predictable and Annie might walk into the kitchen to find Ymir already cooking something, or Bertolt, or the two of them collaborating. Okay, so the two of them did have one thing besides alcoholism in common.  
  
Though she made a mean smoothie, Historia never cooked. Annie had been surprised the first time she observed Ymir preparing a meal while her wife sat at the table, reading the paper and sipping coffee—but this, Ymir was quick to point out, was only due to “silly stereotypes and expectations about gender roles extrapolated from perceived feminine and masculine traits.” Annie’s face had gone hot with humiliation.  
  
“It feels good playing the domestic goddess,” Ymir had said to her, if for no other reason than to let Annie know there was no real offense taken.  
  
Still, Annie never mentioned the incident again, and thankfully neither had Ymir  
  
“Help yourself to milk or oh-jay. if you want,” Ymir told Annie before dexterously cracking two eggs at once on the rim of her pan and dripping them into the mix.  
  
Permission wasn’t really needed since the fridge had long since been declared open access, but Annie said, “Thanks,” anyways and shuffled over to get a drink.  
  
Only when she unclenched her hands to reach for the refrigerator door and the wadded up scrap of paper fell soundlessly to the floor did Annie remember she’d had it in her palm. She stooped to pick it up and then set it on the marble countertop next to the stove. “That’s for you, Ymir,” she said and immediately turned her attention back to the fridge before Ymir had a chance to ask what it was.  
  
Annie heard the sound of paper crinkling, though, and she stood stock-still, staring past the orange juice and milk, which were right in front of her eyes. The note, scribbled at some ungodly hour on a torn page from a yellow steno pad, contained the only idea that had actually given her enough peace of mind to get some sleep last night. When she woke up, she wasn’t sure if she would even give it to Ymir, but had grabbed it on impulse before leaving her room.  
  
“Who is Marco Bott?” Ymir ask. “And why are you giving me his email address?”  
  
At last grabbing the carton of milk and pulling her face out of the fridge as if she’d been diligently searching this whole time, Annie turned to Ymir and answered in the most nonchalant tone she could affect. “He’s the guy you should ask to be your sperm donor.”  
  
One of Ymir’s eyebrows arched puckishly. “So you did overhear that conversation last night,” she said, emphasizing the word did as if she already suspected as much and had only needed confirmation. “And you think this Marco guy is a better choice than Bertl?”  
  
Annie drew a deep breath to steady her nerves and said, “He has freckles.”  
  
“Freckles?” Ymir blinked at her through a veil of peppery omelet steam.  
  
“Lots of them,” Annie confirmed. “I know Bertolt has several traits that you, uh, relate to, but if you really want to use a donor who approximates your own qualities, you can’t overlook one of your most charming and distinctive features. Freckles are paramount and Marco has them. Dark hair, too, and he likes to cook. I’ve never heard him sing, but his speaking voice is quite nice.” There, a nice, neat logical argument.  
  
Ymir’s mouth quirked. “And you think he’d agree to be a sperm donor for a couple of complete strangers? I mean, even if he didn’t know he’d be mixing genes with one of the most famous women in the world right now?”  
  
“Oh yeah,” said Annie. “Marco is super-kind and super-generous, always willing to help out somebody in need.” She paused. “If you’re interested, though, you should probably send a few friendly emails back and forth before asking for his genetic material, just as a matter of courtesy.”  
  
During the course of the conversation Ymir had finished cooking the eggs and now she was nudging three more-or-less equal portions onto three white plates. After setting aside her skillet and spatula, she picked back up the rumpled bit of paper and tucked it into the breast pocket of her t-shirt. “I’ll put him on the list for consideration,” she said, still wearing an inscrutable trace of a smile. Then she grabbed two of the plates, leaving the last for Annie, and went to join Historia at the table.  
  
Ordinarily, Bertolt would have switched out his undershirt for a proper tee before leaving his bedroom, but this morning he couldn’t find a clean one to put on—funny, he could have sworn he’d washed one yesterday—so he headed downstairs in the state he’d awoken. Modesty was not that big a deal in this household anyways, particularly with Ymir, who had an aversion to wearing a bra before noon.  
  
He’d slept in late today because he’d been up late last night, even after he’d gone to bed and turned out the lights. For hours he’d laid awake racking his brain, trying to think of a way to show Reiner and Annie his love without taking anything from them. But he’d come up with nothing before finally falling into a fitful, sheet-twisting sleep. Altruism was tricky when you had no money, no home, and no marketable skills. He had some impressive social connections in Ymir and Historia, but this was something he had to do on his own, without relying on his rich and famous friends.  
  
In the kitchen, Bertolt found the three female occupants of the house all seated around the table eating breakfast, the scene awash in buttery morning sunlight striping in through the Venetian blinds.  
  
“Top o’ the morning, Longshanks,” Ymir said amidst chewing. “Stove’s all yours if you want it.”  
  
“Thanks,” he said. “Pancakes anyone?” The offer was meant specially for Annie, who already had omelet on her plate but was a known fan of big hearty breakfasts.  
  
“Yes please,” said Historia cheerily.  
  
“Count me in,” said Ymir.  
  
That just left Annie, who made him wait for an excruciating three seconds before saying, “Like you even need to ask me.”  
  
Bertolt grinned, even though none of the women were looking at him to see it. “Right,” he said. “Of course. I’ll make a tall stack.” Maybe he hadn’t been able to think of a grand gesture to demonstrate his love, but in the meantime he could still do little things, like make pancakes.  
  
As he assembled all the necessary elements from fridge and cupboard and cabinets, checking them off in his head—eggs, buttermilk, flour, sugar, oil, pitcher, frying pan—Bertolt captured glances when he could of Annie at the table. She sat slightly hunched, bare legs tucked underneath her, eyes aimed at an issue of _Runner’s World_ held in her left hand as the right hand blindly forked egg into her mouth. Her t-shirt looked familiar—must be one of Reiner’s. No, wait, not Reiner’s.  
  
 _So that’s where it went_ , Bertolt thought, pleasantly warm in his chest when he considered that something that had touched his skin was now touching hers.  
  
He went about the business of making pancakes feeling tired but not unhappy. Still, last night’s promise to Reiner was a significant presence in his mind and so was his concern over Annie. She seemed okay right now, but he was determined to ask Reiner what he thought, if he could think of how to word the question.  
  
Reiner was the last person in the house to wake up, or at least the last one to come down for breakfast, as the other four were already gathered in the kitchen when he arrived, one hand under his shirt scratching at his belly. The girls were around the table and Bertolt was en route from the stove with a platter stacked high with pancakes.  
  
“Whoa, lemme help you with that, Bertl,” he said. “You’ve got a Leaning Tower of Pisa thing going on.”  
  
“It’s okay, I got it,” Bertolt replied, dipping a shoulder to counterbalance his load. He didn’t sound annoyed by the offer of assistance, just determined to do it himself. “But if you could grab a couple of plates for you and me, that would be great.”  
  
This Reiner did gladly, and he got glasses and silverware as well, setting adjacent places on the table just as Bertolt made it over with his bounty. “Smells awesome.”  
  
“Sure does,” Ymir said, standing up so she could reach across the table and spear the top four pancakes from the stack and deposit them on her plate. Rather than sit back down however, she straightened her spine so her head was highest in the room (after Reiner and Bertolt had taken their seats) and commanded everyone’s attention by tapping the tines of her fork against her empty orange juice glass.  
  
The glittery tinkle sent a Pavlovian shudder down Annie’s spine. No, this couldn’t be right. They’d just had Karaoke Night. “Please don’t tell me you’ve decided to make it Karaoke _Week_ ,” she said, her tone straddling the line between sarcasm and actual dread.  
  
“I don’t think my voice could handle that,” said Reiner, though he doubted anyone would mourn the loss if he went too hoarse to sing.  
  
Ymir gave her chin a scratch. “Hmm. Karaoke Week sounds like a good idea,” she said. “Thanks for the idea, Annie. It won’t be this week, though, since it’s already Tuesday. And we’ve got big plans for this Saturday, which is what I stood up to announce.”  
  
Annie hoped the threat of an actual Karaoke Week was an idle one, retaliation for her disdainful attitude. She and Reiner and Bertolt all watched Ymir’s beaming face, awaiting the real announcement as the pancakes cooled.  
  
After a minute, Ymir’s smile fell. “Well?” she barked impatiently. “Aren’t you going to ask me what the big plans are?”  
  
“Wh-what are the big plans?” Bertolt asked. He hadn’t realized it was necessary to ask, but Ymir’s expectations were difficult to predict.  
  
Her face returned to its previous cheery grin. “I am glad you asked, Bertl. There’s a reason why you’re my favorite, you know. This Saturday is a very special day indeed—it’s me and Historia’s second wedding anniversary.”  
  
There had been no talk whatsoever in the preceding weeks that might have indicated that this was the case so the news came as a genuine surprise to the three houseguests. They all offered up congratulations: Reiner’s bright, Bertolt’s sweet, and Annie’s mumbled.  
  
“So are you going on a trip or something?” Bertolt asked, already pondering whether the three of them were going to be entrusted with taking care of the house in their absence or if their time here at the mansion had finally run out.  
  
“Naw,” said Ymir. “Tori and I go on romantic getaways all the time. For our anniversary we want to do something different. Something we can share with our friends.”  
  
“We’re having a party!” Historia chimed, apparently too excited to wait for her wife to say it.  
  
Annie raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “Just four days away—isn’t it a bit short-notice?”  
  
Ymir made a small noise that was halfway between a grunt and tongue cluck and did that dismissive hand-wave thing of hers. “Nonsense. The invitations went out weeks ago. Didn’t think you three needed them since you’re staying here.”  
  
“Alright, a party,” said Reiner. He didn’t consider himself a party animal by any means, but the things he’d heard about rich people’s parties—in particular the food—got his imagination flowing. “Finally a chance eat with the elite.”  
  
Bertolt was trepidatious. A party meant a crowd and a crowd made him anxious. At least he knew that Ymir wouldn’t let any alcohol cross their threshold. But even now, almost three and a half years after his crime, he still held onto the fear that somebody would see him and recognize him as a fugitive. He wouldn’t put a damper on this couple’s celebration by worrying aloud, though, so he held his tongue.  
  
“It won’t be the wine and cheese set, if that’s what you were hoping for, Burly.” Ymir wore a faintly smug look as she said this—snootily dismissing the snooty. “We aren’t that type. But the food will be delicious. Won’t it, Longshanks? You know, since you’ll be making it.”  
  
“Uh—” Bertolt froze up. Had she really just volunteered him to play cook for a celebrity party? Sweat bubbled on his forehead.  
  
Ymir burst with a laugh. “Hah! I’m just kidding, you lanky doofus! We’ve got caterers coming. But you should’ve seen the look on your face just now. Priceless. You really think I’d just volunteer you to play cook at a celebrity party?”  
  
“Uh—” He opened his mouth and then closed it again, taking refuge in silence.  
  
This unfunny joke was Annie’s cue to dispense with the respectful abstinence from eating and she grabbed three pancakes from the stack with her bare hand and slapped them on her plate. She slathered them with syrup—the real-deal, imported from Vermont, comes in a maple leaf-shaped glass bottle kind—before proceeding to shred them into bite-sized scraps with the side of her fork and shovel them into her mouth. Bertolt’s pancakes were the best.  
  
“You know it’s very rude to eat when somebody is making a formal announcement,” Ymir said pointedly.  
  
Oh, is that what she was doing? Sounded more like she was teasing Bertolt for her own twisted pleasure again. But instead of that, Annie said, “I had to. The pancakes were getting cold. WWSD?”  
  
Ymir’s face scrunched into a look of confused irritation. “What? WWSD? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”  
  
Bertolt couldn’t keep himself from smiling—the joke was his and Annie’s, invented weeks ago when she’d accidentally dropped a slice of pizza, pepperoni side up, on the sunbaked pavement near the pool and agonized over whether or not to eat it anyway.  
  
“Oh!” said Reiner on a proud wave of epiphany. “I get it! What would Sasha do, right?”  
  
Annie flashed her brother a conspiratorial half-smirk. He hadn’t been in on the original joke, but of course he got it.  
  
Reiner laughed and served himself six pancakes from the shrinking stack, because that was what Sasha would do. “WWSD indeed!”  
  
“Who is Sasha?” Historia asked.  
  
“A friend of ours,” said Bertolt fondly. “She _really_ likes food.” It was all the explanation required, but of course the joke wasn’t funny unless you actually knew Sasha. It made him happy to share these sorts of corny, stupid jokes with Reiner and Annie, tying them to each other and to their experiences together—even when they were with wonderful new friends, the three of them were a tribe apart.  
  
“Alright, fine, you can eat,” said Ymir. She was bent over the table, her spine arched and her arms bracing her. “Just keep your attention on _me_. This is important.” When she had her audience, quiet save for the sounds of clicking silverware, she straightened her posture and reclaimed her grin. “As I was saying, it won’t be too formal. Catered yes, but lunch, not dinner.”  
  
“And there’ll be games,” Historia piped in, standing up and threading one arm around her wife’s (which caused Ymir’s body language to markedly relax). “And prizes.”  
  
 _Is this party for a second anniversary or a second birthday?_ Annie thought. Already the idea of having to participate in games with a bunch of strangers, rich and famous or not, annoyed her. What would it be? Pin the Tail on the Donkey? Duck Duck Goose? Red Rover? Hopefully nothing that juvenile. But whatever it was, she’d have to weasel out of it.  
  
The mention of games had Bertolt thinking nervously again about the crowd of other guests. Who and how many? “So, uh, how many of your friends can we look forward to playing games with?” he asked, trying his best to sound merely curious about it.  
  
Ymir reached over and tousled his hair. “Don’t you worry your pretty, sweaty little head there, Bertl. I know you’re more of a pill bug than a social butterfly and I can reassure you that there will be fewer than fifty other guests at our soiree.”  
  
Fifty still sounded like a lot.  
  
“Okay, so what’s the dress code for this shindig?” Reiner asked. He wasn’t really concerned about decorum since Ymir had already said it wouldn’t be too formal—really he was trying to find out if this would be a pool party. If Bertolt was going to be walking around shirtless, he wanted advance warning so he could psyche himself up not to stare.  
  
“Not a pool party,” Ymir said, effortlessly ferreting out his real question. “Sorry, Burly, but you’re going to have to keep your shirt on.”  
  
He knew that she understood his real concern.  
  
“You can pretty much wear whatever you like,” said Historia. “Your normal clothes are just fine, Reiner, but if you like I could keep an eye out for something new that would suit you when I go out shopping this week. And that offer goes for you as well, Bertolt, Annie.”  
  
“Really?” Reiner asked excitedly. Any clothes picked out by Historia Reiss—the one and only _Krista Lenz_ —was bound to look good.  
  
“Only if you want to,” said Bertolt. He’d never been good at accepting gifts from anyone other than Reiner and Annie.  
  
Annie said, “Hell no,” and crammed another forkful of pancake in her maw. She’d seen enough of Historia’s tastes fashion—all flouncy, ruffled skirts and peasant blouses and lacy camisoles—to rightfully fear what the starlet might select for her.  
  
“Now I already know what your next question is going to be,” said Ymir, “so I’ll just go ahead and answer it now. No, you don’t have to get us any presents.”  
  
“Your presence is our present,” said Historia as she gave Ymir’s arm an affectionate squeeze.  
  
Reiner gave a small, humble smile. “Well we sure do appreciate you making an exception since we have no—” He was going to say money, but Ymir interrupted.  
  
“Buh-UH-t,” she said, drawing out the vowel and pitching it higher to taunt a caveat. “Since we have been so magnanimous to grant you this exemption from the gift-giving ritual, you will be expected to help get this place in party-shape by Saturday.”  
  
“Of course we’ll help you clean up the house,” said Bertolt. His fervent desire to do something selfless for Reiner and Annie put him in a generally more helpful and hardworking state of mind, which easily extended to his hostesses—he actually felt enthused to do some housework.  
  
And then he saw Ymir’s wicked little grin, her snaggletooth glinting sharp and white like the fang of some small, vicious animal, and his enthusiasm drained away.  
  
“Enjoy your breakfast, kids,” she said, plopping back down to the bench with Historia still barnacled to her side. “Afterwards, I’m putting you to work.”  
  
—  
  
Ymir had not been joking around. As soon as the breakfast dishes had been cleared—by Bertolt, already shifted into cleaning mode—she made good on her word and put the trio to work. Her plans for getting the house in “party-shape,” however, turned out to be substantially more labor-intensive than she’d implied and the jobs she assigned to Reiner, Bertolt, and Annie were not so much household chores as household renovation projects.  
  
Right from the start, she split the trio up, setting each of them to task on a different floor of the mansion. Reiner would take the basement, Bertolt the ground floor, and Annie the upstairs and their primary objectives were, respectively, re-carpeting, installing new light fixtures, and painting. This was outlined in a preliminary meeting at the c-shaped sofa, which convened after Historia had kissed Ymir goodbye and left the house for a day of interviews and photo-shoots and meetings with studio execs (all while donning the persona of Krista Lenz), and included a brief question and answer session at the end.  
  
Bertolt (timid): “Is this party really going to be spread over all three levels? I can see how you could set something up in the basement, yeah, but all that’s upstairs really are the bedrooms.”  
  
Ymir (flippant): “How should I know? You probably haven’t been to many parties in your lifetime, Longshanks, so let me tell you these things are unpredictable.”  
  
Annie (sardonic): “Why don’t you just hire somebody to do these tasks? Money is no object for you so why leave it in the hands of us amateurs when there are professionals who will do a better job?”  
  
Ymir (accusatory, mock thoughtful, then flippant): “Are you telling me you don’t plan to do your very best work? Ah, perhaps you are right that professionals would do it better. But we would like to keep our private life private, to all but our close friends. Most outsiders don’t even know Tori’s real name.”  
  
Reiner (suspicious): “And, uh, how do we know you aren’t just using this party as an excuse to get us to do the home improvements you’ve been putting off?”  
  
Ymir (flippant): “Alright, question time is over. There’s work to be done. Materials and equipment are all set up. Now, to your battle stations, warriors!”  
  
The three warriors said nothing, just exchanged chary looks before heading off to their separate domains.  
  
—  
  
By the end of the day—Day One of what would inevitably be a multi-day endeavor—Reiner had arrived at the conclusion that he should never be alone with his thoughts for that long. He was an extrovert, and as such had spent his life diffusing his worries—or at least distracting himself from them—through socialization. It probably helped that in the past he’d had few major worries and many friends with which to socialize. But today he was shit out of luck.  
  
The work did occupy some of his thought processes along with his body—he had to move all of the furniture, including some cumbersome fitness apparatuses, from one room to the other through a narrow hallway before tearing up the carpet and under-padding, plying up the leftover staples, and measuring for the new carpet—but he still had plenty of unengaged gray matter to think about Bertolt and Annie as he did it. His trouble started out as a tiny, niggling question, which he turned over and over and over in his head, like a mosquito bite he couldn’t stop scratching until it bled: What if Annie does have feelings for Bertolt?  
  
His brain had rejected the notion of Annie as a romantic rival for so long he assumed it must indicate a theoretical impossibility—she couldn’t be in love with Bertolt. But now, all by himself, with just the smells of foam rubber and dust and the sound of his box cutter tearing through Berber, he found himself seriously contemplating the potential threat.  
  
If both of them loved Bertolt and Bertolt had to choose between the two of them, Reiner knew he didn’t stand a chance. How could he compete against the woman Bertolt had been in love with for thirteen years?  
  
He’d thought his mind was all made up, that he would seek out the right moment and confess his feelings, but after eight hours of torturing himself, he was no longer so sure. If it were anyone else but Annie he was up against he wouldn’t be so torn apart.  
  
Annie’s day was an unmitigated pain in the ass. The upstairs of the Reisses’ home encompassed a master bedroom (complete with master bathroom and walk-in closet), three guest bedrooms, two guest bathrooms, the hallway, and a room Ymir referred to as her “work room” but which she never actually used for working because it was so cluttered with plastic tubs full of her unfinished manuscripts and indecipherable research notes. Each room was to be painted a different color, by Annie alone, who also had to do all of the prep work like moving the furniture and masking the crown molding with tape.  
  
Her one consolation was that her muscles—including some she probably didn’t utilize enough—would be fully employed for the whole day. And also the next couple days she predicted with less optimism.  
  
She decided to paint the guest bedrooms first, and among those she started with room being used by Bertolt. A random choice, she mentally reassured herself, then amended her explanation to a matter of convenience—she would start with the room furthest from the staircase and work her way back.  
  
Bertolt’s room was equivalent to her room in terms of size and decor—the same basic elements but in variant styles: queen-sized bed, dresser, nightstand, television, chair. Like her room it had a door accessing the shared balcony, which none of them spent much time on thanks to a brutally hot L.A. summer. His bedsheets were so twirled and tangled that they’d peeled off the mattress at one corner and though she didn’t have to, Annie went ahead and fixed it before getting started.  
  
While she was bent over the bed, she pressed her nose to the pillowcase and breathed in the scent of his hair, his face, his neck. The downy hairs on her arms pricked up in recognition—it didn’t matter what soap or shampoo he used, there was always a trace of Bertolt Hoover underneath—and for a flickering decimal of an instant, she was transported back to the night when she’d fucked him.  
  
It had felt like a mere fuck at the time. A good fuck—incredible for a virgin—but a fuck nonetheless, far less significant a thing than what it had since become to her.  
  
There wasn’t time to mope, though. Or rather, if she was going to mope (which felt like an inevitability at this point), she could do it while painting.  
  
Bertolt would have rather worked as a team with Reiner and Annie, the three of them taking on each task together, but he hadn’t asked Ymir to consider it at the meeting and even if he had she wouldn’t have, so he was stuck untangling wires on his own, forever holding his peace. Maybe it was more efficient this way. Who knew? Well, Ymir certainly thought she knew.  
  
Unlike Reiner and Annie, who were left to work independently after their initial instructions, Bertolt found himself being micromanaged at every step by a gleefully bossy Ymir. “Not that wire. A few millimeters to the left. No, the other halogen bulbs. Are you even listening to me, Bertl?”  
  
He hadn’t really noticed before just how many light fixtures there were on the main floor of the house. Ymir wanted all of them replaced and didn’t care that Bertolt had no particular expertise in matters of electrical wiring—he was the tallest and therefore had the best access to high places and that was enough to land him the job.  
  
He tried to stay positive as he toiled under Ymir’s direct command. This was a learning experience: he was gaining skills and knowledge he could one day use to renovate his own home. Except he couldn’t imagine ever having a home of his own. Reiner and Annie’s home then. Or homes, plural (though it was hard to envision them living apart, adult siblings didn’t typically live together). Someday, when they could stop running.  
  
“Stop daydreaming and focus, Longshanks. You’re getting drywall dust everywhere.”  
  
Any chain of thought he had while working, in hope or regret, was invariably broken up by Ymir and maybe that was for the best.  
  
To have the house ready in time for Saturday’s party, Reiner, Annie, and Bertolt worked their asses off, barely carving out enough free minutes each day to eat their meals together whilst grumbling and comparing the specific grievances of their respective tasks. Each evening they collapsed into their beds with sore muscles and blank minds and fell right to sleep. The amount of labor seemed insurmountable for just three people in just four day, but somehow they did it.  
  
Saturday dawned in nuclear orange, the sky spread thickly with an ambiguous July haze, which might pile up and darken into storm clouds or (more likely) just hang there like a greenhouse roof, bottling in the L.A. fug. What it wouldn’t do was burn off and turn into a clear, breezy day. Nope, not a chance of that.  
  
Annie woke up with knotted shoulder muscles and her nose filled with the heady, pseudo-toxic odor of house paint. It was the room, of course—the walls surrounding her were now a lemon chiffon cake yellow, cheery and gender-neutral, as ordered by Ymir in premeditation of a future baby’s nursery—but Annie imagined the smell as a particle-thin film coating the insides of her sinuses after four days of inhaling noxious fumes. She tried not to think about the future baby.  
  
Party day was upon her, ripe with promises of forced socialization and faked jollity. Annie would have feigned illness if she’d thought for one second Ymir would swallow it. As skilled a martial artist as she was, she couldn’t fight this, so she might as well just get up and face it. Letting out a rusty groan, she levered up from her bed and swung her feet to the floor.  
  
At the top landing of the stairs, she heard voices floating up from the main floor and by the time she was half-way descended, she could make out the words.  
  
“Are you kidding? I love red. And the style is great.” Reiner.  
  
“You seem surprised that my wife knows her way around the men’s department.” Ymir.  
  
“We can’t accept these. They must have cost a fortune.” Bertolt.  
  
“Think of it as compensation for all your hard work this week.” Historia.  
  
All four of them were up already. Annie had gotten used to not always being the first person awake in this household, but this was the first time she was the last.  
“Hello,” she said without affect, drawing all eyes over to where she stood on the outermost edge of the scene.  
  
Three were sitting around the crescent of sofa and only Ymir was standing, arms crossed in front of her—she really did like having her head highest in the room, which had become something of a personal challenge since Reiner and Bertolt came to stay. Clustered in the hollow center of the c-curve were a half dozen or so shopping bags emblazoned with logos from stores with unfamiliar names: Fred Segal, American Rag, Union, Elyse Walker, Freecity Supershop.  
  
After a moment of blinking surprise, Historia was the first to offer a greeting. “Annie, good morning!” Happiness radiated from her like heat from a freshly tarred blacktop, rippling the atmosphere around her. “I didn’t hear you coming down the stairs, but I’m glad you’re here now.” She stood up, plucked two of the shopping bags off the floor by their handles, and thrust them towards Annie. “I know you said not to buy you any clothes, but since I’d already found things for the guys, it didn’t feel right to leave you out. Please?”  
  
Annie took the bags gingerly, as if they might contain volatile substances or unpleasantly many-legged creatures, both of which would have been preferable to whatever frilly flower child clothes Historia had picked out for her. But she couldn’t bring herself to refuse a gift from the glowing wife on her anniversary, so, with a resigned sigh, she fished a hand into one bag and pulled out the tissue paper wrapped bundle.  
  
Bertolt was watching with interest he hoped wasn’t obvious to anybody. He liked the outfit that had been hand-selected for him—nice tan crops with a plaid lining that would show when the cuffs were rolled, mantis green v-neck tee, suede boat shoes—but he’d never been too particular about his clothes (probably because he grew up having to accept whatever he got without complaint). What Annie might be wearing to the party, however, he was very eager to see.  
  
“Oh,” said Annie, round-mouthed as she peeled back the paper from a pair of dark denim shorts and a baby-soft cotton t-shirt with a unicorn print. She’d been so fully prepared to fake her gratitude that the real thing got stuck in throat. The words fell out sheepishly when they finally came. “I actually kind of like this.”  
  
“I’m so happy,” Historia said brightly, clasping her hands together. Then she gave Annie a coy eyebrow raise, looking remarkably like her wife there for a moment, and said, “You didn’t think I was going to get you the same style of clothes I buy for me, did you?”  
  
“Of course not,” Annie bluffed. “I’m not that dumb.”  
  
“Right,” said Historia, tilting her chin up and tapping one finger to her lower lip (this, too, was very Ymir-ish). “Your brother told me you like unicorns.”  
  
“They’re okay,” said Annie in a deliberately bored tone. _Actually, they’re fucking awesome_ , she thought.  
  
Reiner had to look down to hide the little grin that sprang up on his face. Yep, he’d told Historia about the unicorns. In fact, he’d done it just for the possibility of a situation like this: his sulky little sister turned hopelessly cute in the face of her secret girly obsession. She really was damn adorable, that sister of his. How could he blame Bertolt for loving her?  
  
“Now look in the other bag,” said Historia.  
  
Annie did, expecting shoes—since she saw the boys had shoeboxes poking out of their bags—but instead pulled out a very small flame red bikini. She frowned. “I thought you said this wasn’t a pool party.”  
  
Historia raised her hands in a placating gesture and said, “It’s not, it’s not.” Twice, for emphasis. “That’s not for the party, that’s just for whenever. You see, the pool is going to get some upgrades. A waterfall, new landscaping.” She stepped over to Ymir and laced their hands. “It’s my anniversary present to my woman.”  
  
The husky way she said the last three words— _to my woman_ —made Annie flush. What a wonder it must be to be so in love.  
  
“I’m sorry but I don’t wear bikinis,” Annie said, tucking the two scant pieces of fabric back into the bag from whence they’d come. “It’s not my style.”  
  
Any lingering residue of the pleasure Reiner had gotten from his sister’s hidden charm dissipated as she made this claim. Annie used to wear bikinis, not for serious swimming (which is what she usually did at the neighborhood pool back in Arlington), but when she was on vacation, at the beach or a hotel. Reiner remembered one particular Leonhart family getaway to Rehoboth—or maybe it was Ocean City—when she was just thirteen years old: he’d teased her for being too flat-chested to wear a two-piece so she wore bikinis with pugnacious exclusivity for the next two summers, just to stick it to him. But the last time he’d seen her wear one had been the summer before they moved in with Jean and Marco—that is, the summer before her accident and subsequent surgery. There must be a scar. He hadn’t seen it, but he knew she had to have a scar.  
  
For the first time in a long time, Reiner felt a flaring hatred for the man who’d knocked up his little sister, like a guttered bed of charcoals bursting back into red pendants of flame when poked with a stick. It didn’t make a damn bit of sense that this man, this nameless, faceless waiter, should be his target rather than the driver of the truck that hit her, but that was where Reiner’s brotherly rage was drawn. That prick had impregnated his sister, his Annie, and left her to deal with it, stressed and distracted, easy prey for an errant vehicle (which figured in Reiner’s version of the story like an inexorable force of nature, a rogue elephant or stranded shark), and now she couldn’t wear a bikini anymore.  
  
And the worst part of it all was that the shithead got away with it without ever having to face the overprotective big brother.  
  
Reiner crunched a fist at his side, popping his knuckles, and breathed in deep to cool the fire.  
  
“Well if you aren’t going to wear it, you should give it back to my darling wife,” said Ymir, a lascivious glint in her toffee brown eyes. “Because it would look absolutely ravishing on her.”  
  
Historia laughed and play-slapped Ymir’s arm. “Oh shut up, honey. I got that bathing suit for Annie so if she doesn’t like it I will return it and get her one she does.” Her little hand clenched in the fabric of Ymir’s sleeve, she pressed her body closer, and said, in a very audible whisper, “Besides, I think you’ll like what I bought to wear in private even better.”  
  
Ymir’s dusky complexion reddened beneath her freckles. “Alright, class dismissed,” she said. “Teacher has an important meeting to attend now.”  
  
“Are you telling us we _can_ leave or that we _have to_ leave?” Annie asked.  
  
“The Missus and I don’t give orders,” Historia said in a lilting voice. She and Ymir were wrapped around each other in a cloying Nicholas Sparks book cover embrace.  
  
“Stick around at your own discretion,” said Ymir, gazing down at Historia and not bothering to look anywhere else. “Because we’re about to make out on the couch and it could get weird for you.”  
  
“Right,” Annie said flatly, trying not to sound miffed. She’d barely been downstairs ten minutes and already she was being shuttled off, gifts she hadn’t asked for in hand. But she had no right to be upset with Ymir and Hostoria; it was their home and their big day after all, so let them neck like giddy schoolgirls. “I’m just going to pop into the kitchen and grab a quick bite,” she told nobody in particular.  
  
“Save room for party food,” said Historia.  
  
“The merriment begins at noon.” Ymir’s eyes were still lost in love land, but she said this loud enough to convey that it was an official proclamation. “We will see you there.”  
  
Annie thought she detected an emphasis on the word “will” and took it just a little bit personally, as if Ymir was telling her and only her that she’d better not try to skip, but the thought lasted only for a moment before it was replaced by thoughts of food and she slunk off to the kitchen to find some toast or a piece of fruit.  
  
Bertolt and Reiner stood up and gathered their bags. Bertolt was still too flustered over the thought of Annie in that red bikini—an image that leapt into his imagination unbidden the moment he saw the skimpy suit and refused to leave despite his earnest wish not to be a creep—to be flustered over the couple’s public display. He didn’t mind leaving, though. With the party just hours away, he needed some time to meditate alone in his room, the slow your breath and empty your mind sort of stuff they talked about at AA meetings. Faced with a crowd of reveling strangers, the old Bertolt would have preemptively sought alcohol to strengthen his feeble social muscles, but the new Bertolt would have to rely on alternative coping strategies.  
  
“I think I’m going to relax, maybe read for a while before party time,” he said to Reiner when they were in the hall outside their bedrooms. He could have told Reiner the truth, no problem, but he was tired of appearing so delicate all the time and the lie was small and harmless.  
  
“Sounds like a good idea,” said Reiner. As much as he wanted to spend this time with Bertolt, he knew that Bertolt needed to be by himself for a while before the party. “You know where I’ll be. If you need me.”  


  
Ten minutes before noon, Bertolt left the sanctuary of his room and found Reiner already in the hallway, dressed in his new, Historia-picked clothes. The woman really did know fashion and Reiner looked as handsome as Bertolt had ever seen him, in pewter gray shorts and a red button-up shirt worn open over  dazzlingly white tank.  
  
“You look good,” Bertolt said, a perfectly ordinary compliment between best friends, though he meant it as more. “Have you been waiting for me out here?”  
  
“Just stepped out a second before you did,” Reiner said, which was a lie; he had been waiting. “And thanks. You look good, too.” No, actually Bertolt looked so handsome Reiner wished he could kiss him, but that wasn’t because of the clothes.  
  
Just then the door to the middle bedroom opened with a soft _whoomph_ and Annie emerged, drawn out by their voices. She was clad in her new finery, blond hair pulled back in a loose knot, and she’d even put on makeup, but her expression was weary. “Let’s get this over with,” she sighed.  
  
Reiner grinned and clapped one arm around her and the other around Bertolt. They were not party people and he knew it. Not that he was, exactly, but he came a lot closer than either of them so he would do his best to keep them from getting too overwhelmed. “It’s going to be fun,” he said reassuringly. “The three of us are in this together.”  
  
Annie twisted away. She knew her brother would rather have Bertolt all to himself and just played up the happy threesome bit because she had nobody else but them. And she was torn, not wanting to be a third wheel, longing to connect with them but not being able to. “I can look out for myself,” she said, putting them behind her with a few quick steps towards the stairs.  
  
“You look really cute, Annie,” Bertolt said, making her pause.  
  
 _Idiot_ , she thought. _You’re the cute one_. Her big brother looked damn fine in his duds, too, but Bertolt was dangerously cute today. It had to be driving Reiner crazy. “Thanks, you too, I mean, nice threads,” she said, the words fast and slippery as a fish leaving her mouth. Then she took the steps ahead of them without turning to look back.  
  
Downstairs, the caterers had already come and gone, leaving a movable feast installed on tables all around the living room. The food offerings defied categorization—nothing resembling hoity-toity goat cheese tarts or good ol’ American pigs-in-blankets could be found amongst the platters. Annie might have associated it with the sort of hipstery, Earth-mother, vegan fare sold at Brew Ha Ha if she hadn’t spotted the table laden with all varieties of seared meat on skewers.  
  
“Oh I hope there will be enough,” said Historia, sweeping around the room to take stock of all the food, her pink sundress belling around her like an inverted lily.  
  
The comment made Bertolt’s stomach clench as he imagined the hungry crowd. Ymir had promised less than fifty guests, but it was probably pretty close to that. _I can do this_ , he thought. _I’ve got Reiner and I’ve got_ — He’d been about to think _I’ve got Annie_ , but couldn’t. He didn’t. He wanted to, but he didn’t. And with all their chores the past several days, he hadn’t had a chance to talk about it with Reiner.  
  
“How do you like the spread?” asked Ymir, who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, dressed in high-waisted brown shorts and a creamy tank top, and sporting a wickedly wide grin.  
  
“Not bad,” said Annie, making an effort to sound unimpressed even though she actually was a little bit—or maybe she was just hungry because all she’d scrounged up for breakfast was an overripe banana. She raised an eyebrow at Ymir. “So you won’t let painters or electricians or carpet installers into your home, but caterers are okay?”  
  
Ymir shrugged, clearly not bothered by the implications. “The catering company is owned by a friend of ours. Honest.” It sounded like a lie, but there was no point in arguing it since the work was already done. “And speaking of friends,” Ymir went on, “the guests should be arriving any minute. Try not to sweat it, Longshanks.”  
  
“Good one,” Bertolt said, chuckling nervously. His skin was already glazed.  
  
The guests arrived as individuals and in small groups, and also in couples: men, women, and people who might be either or neither, paired up in every permutation. Some were recognizable from work on premium cable shows and artsy independent films, but most were more obscure celebrities, if they could be considered celebrities at all. When the influx finally stopped, the population of the house looked to be closer to thirty than fifty, but that was still enough to make Bertolt uncomfortable. Luckily, Reiner stayed near him and did most of the talking when strangers introduced themselves. Everyone was cheerful and friendly and the atmosphere was very casual, which made him a bit more relaxed; still, it was a situation in which he would never feel truly at ease. He forced a smile onto his sweat sticky face and tried to keep his mouth occupied by eating very slowly so he wouldn’t have to say much as he looked out over the room and wondered where Annie had slipped away to.  
  
Annie had found a sparsely occupied corner—literally a corner, which she wedged herself into so as to avoid any surprise greetings from behind—and was sitting on the floor with a one-hundred percent recycled paper plate, ironically loaded up with meat, balanced on her knees. From here she could see Reiner and Bertolt, the former standing with his body subtly curved around the later, like an unusually devoted bodyguard. Did her brother have any idea how obvious his protectiveness of Bertolt was? Did Bertolt notice? From his vantage point (and with his cluelessness) he was probably the only person who couldn’t see.  
  
She continued her observation between sips of ginger ale from a red plastic Solo cup, like a birdwatcher in a bush taking notes on a rare pair of some endangered species: the territorial male and the oblivious target of his mating ritual. Bertolt always looked uncomfortable surrounded by people—on fight nights in Philly, he kept out of the swarm when he wasn’t the one in the ring, and whenever he was invited to a Leonhart gathering in days long gone, he always strayed from the hive, sticking with just Annie and Reiner.  
  
Right then Annie wanted to march across the room and drag him away, upstairs and out onto the balcony, just get away from all of this. But she didn’t. Of course she didn’t.  
  
Just as the eating and greeting was starting to give way to a sated, logy peace, Ymir’s voice boomed over the crowd without the aid of a microphone. “Announcement time! All eyes on the happy couple!” She was standing on a chair with Historia hugged to her side, the pair of them looking like a feisty pirate and her scrappy wench.  
  
“First things first, we’d like to thank all of you for coming,” said Historia, her voice carrying surprisingly well for all its sweetness of tone. “A lot of anniversaries are kept as private celebrations between two people whose love has continued to blossom for another year, but we wanted to share this one with the people who mean the most to us—well, besides each other—our friends.”  
  
Ymir kissed her once and then took over. “If you are here, consider yourselves lucky, because we only invited people we like, by which I mean, people who know better than to ask for spoilers from the next book in my series.” This earned a laugh. “And of course, the free food we’re doling out today can’t be beat, provided by the talented Ms. Ilse Langnar and her catering team. Let’s give her a hand.”  
  
A freckle-faced woman in shredded jeans and a bandana who looked like she could be Ymir’s cousin gave a shy, modest wave as the other guests applauded.  
  
 _So it wasn’t a lie_ , Annie thought.  
  
“Moving right along,” said Ymir. “In addition to delicious food, our invitations promised fun games. Now, after careful deliberation, my gorgeous wife and I—” Here she stopped and gave Historia another kiss to a consensus of awws. “Sorry, I still get all excited when I say that: my wife. Like I was saying, my wife and I decided that instead of a bunch of little games, we wanted to set up one grand game with one grand prize.”  
  
Historia giggled mischievously. “We aren’t going to tell you what that prize is yet, but I’ll give you a hint: the abbreviation is S.C.”  
  
This unleashed a chorus of excited murmurs and left Reiner scratching his chin. “What do you suppose S.C. stands for, Bertl? All I can think of is South Carolina and that can’t be right. Heh, must be some West Coast thing I’ve never heard of.”  
  
Besides South Carolina, Bertolt’s only guess was Southern Comfort, which was definitely wrong because Ymir wouldn’t give booze as a prize and even if she would that syrupy stuff could hardly be considered grand. “I have no idea,” he said. “Makes it a bit harder to get worked up for the game when everyone else has an inkling of what they’re playing for. Or maybe I’m just not very competitive.” Yeah, that was it.  
  
Reiner pulled him into a by-the-shoulder side hug and said, “Look at it this way: if you aren’t gunning for the grand prize there’s no pressure to win. It won’t be so bad.”  
  
“As to the nature of the game,” said Ymir, cutting through the buzz of talk. “It will be a treasure hunt. The only place on the property off limits is the top floor. Everything else is game: ground floor, basement, bathroom, closets, pool house, gardens. Your job is to find gold tokens that have been hidden throughout, some by themselves and some in big stashes. The big stashes will have clues attached to help you find bigger stashes but anybody can stumble across some treasure. Whoever finds the most wins.”  
  
“But you won’t have to do it alone,” Historia piped in before anyone had a chance to question or comment. “Since the grand prize is enough for two people, you’ll be playing in pairs. There is an even number of guests so it works out perfectly.”  
  
A wave of nausea churned the contents of Annie’s overfull stomach. Pairs, of course. And there was no way she could get out of it because then there wouldn’t be an even number. She didn’t want to team up with a stranger, but the only two people she was willing to have as partners were standing right next to each other and had probably already conspired to team up. A selfish little voice at the back of her mind whispered that it wasn’t fair, that she should get to be Bertolt’s partner since Reiner was best suited of the three of them to get along with a stranger. She stood and started to wend her way over towards them, hoping she might be able to negotiate something.  
  
“Told you it wouldn’t be bad,” Reiner told Bertolt, pleased with the news. “We can play the game as a team and I’ll be competitive for both of us.”  
  
“Okay,” Bertolt said. He hoped it didn’t sound reluctant since he was genuinely happy to get to team up with Reiner, but he did worry about Annie. Why couldn’t there have been an odd number of people so there could be one team of three?  
  
“Before you start choosing partners,” said Ymir, after Reiner and Bertolt had already chosen to be partners, “I must tell you that teams will be chosen by a special drawing. Otherwise you’d all just pair up with the people you came with and where’s the fun in that?”  
  
Historia took over again. “In just a minute, we will be going around the room with a bowl full of paper slips, each with one half of a famous pair on it. Simply draw a slip and then find your mate. It’s that simple. So is everyone ready to play?”  
  
The additional rule sent a fresh stir through the crowd.  
  
Reiner felt crestfallen.  
  
Bertolt felt apprehensive.  
  
Annie felt a little bit of schadenfreude. She’d probably still be stuck with some stranger, but the odds were Reiner and Bertolt would, too, and the three of them could meet back up when all of this was done and trade stories about their crummy partners. With no need for negotiations, she parked herself close but not too close to them and girded herself to be annoyed for the next hour or so.  
  
The bowl, a great round thing like the top of a gum ball machine, looked downright enormous nestled in the arms of diminutive Historia Reiss as she and Ymir moved from guest to guest, having them pluck out bits of white paper.  
  
Annie took hers but didn’t open it, just closed her fingers around it and waited for the guys to get theirs.  
  
By the time the bowl reached Bertolt, his palms were already slick with perspiration.  
  
Ymir rolled her eyes at him, as if it were something he had control over. “Here, let me,” she said, reaching a hand into the bowl. “I don’t want you dripping on the papers and making the ink run.” She drew two slips and placed one in his damp hand. The other she handed to Reiner. “Got one for you, too, Burly.”  
  
Bertolt took the warning about the ink to heart and unfolded the paper carefully with his fingertips. The name _Bert_ was written in neat blue calligraphy. “Uh, I think there’s been a mistake,” he said, directing it at Ymir and Historia who were still in the immediate vicinity. “I got my own name.”  
  
“Your name wasn’t in the bowl to begin with,” said Ymir. “Weren’t you listening to the rules, Bertl? Famous pairs.”  
  
Curious, Reiner craned his neck to get a look at the name on Bertolt’s slip and was delighted. “Haha! I get it! And wouldn’t you know it, I drew Ernie. We’re Bert and Ernie! Looks like we get to be a team after all! What are the odds?”  
  
Having watched and listened to all of this unfold, Annie felt her inside go hot, volcanic with irritation. Her fist crunched tight around the still folded scrap of paper in her hand—she didn’t give a shit what it said. What are the odds, Reiner had asked? Pretty damn good when the game’s masterminds draw your lots for you. It was possible it was a coincidence, but it sure as hell didn’t feel like one.  
  
“You jelly?” a voice asked teasingly and Annie immediately turned and rounded on the woman who’d said it.  
  
“No, I am not jealous!” Annie growled, causing the woman, a pretty twenty-something with large brown eyes and dark hair in ponytails, to flinch.  
  
“Oh, sorry,” the woman said and gave a small chuckle. “I meant that literally, I just said it that way because I thought it would be funny, which I guess it’s not. See, I’m peanut butter.” She held up her slip of paper, which indeed had _peanut butter_ written on it in blue calligraphy. “Though I suppose honey, banana, chocolate, or marshmallow cream would all be valid matches, too.”  
  
Unexpectedly soothed by this woman’s genial, sincere aura, Annie relaxed her tensed shoulders and opened her clenched fist. She unfolded her slip of paper and found the word _jelly_. “Looks like I am jelly after all, which would make us a team I suppose.” She couldn’t sound excited, but she tried not to sound too glum.  
  
“Cool,” said the woman. “My name’s Mina, by the way, Mina Carolina.”  
  
Annie had detected a hint of an accent she couldn’t place in the woman’s voice and now she was wondering if Carolina was her legal name or one she’d adopted from her place of origin. “I’m Annie Leonard,” said Annie, falling back on her old fake.  
  
When everybody was partnered up, Historia and Ymir returned to their lovers’ perch atop the chair. “Alright everyone, you have one hour!” Ymir bellowed.  
  
Historia added a chipper, “Good luck and happy hunting!”  
  
“Well Mina, I guess we ought to go look for some treasure,” Annie said unenthusiastically as her eyes drifted back to Reiner and Bertolt, both grinning as they performed a fist bump.  
  
It didn’t take long for Bertolt and Reiner to discover they had a distinct advantage in this treasure hunt: they knew the terrain better than any of their competition. Having spent the last two months living in this huge house and the last four days carrying out extensive projects on the two floors involved, they were aware of all the best hiding places. The treasure sack they’d been provided at the start of the hunt (really just a one gallon ziplock bag) filled quickly, largely from the big stashes they uncovered in punkerish places like the cabinet Bertolt had been forced to build to hide all the wires in the living room and the hidden drawer in the basement coffee table that kept popping open when Reiner had to move it. Most of the clues weren’t really necessary and just pointed to caches they’d already found, but a few that were actually useful were worded in such a way that anyone else would likely be confounded.  
  
 _Seek the place where a Hallowed Karaoke Night Tradition is made._  
  
This was obviously the pitcher of the Vitamix blender, which was stowed under the bar—Bertolt and Reiner retrieved an empty Fage yogurt tub full of gold tokens from it—but nobody else but Annie would know that.  
  
Bertolt was suspicious but Reiner was so enthralled with their success that he didn’t think it was worth the bother to ask if the feeling was mutual. They could talk about it later and just enjoy being together for now, together and on a hot streak.  
  
Annie’s brain was too distracted for her to be of much help to Mina, which Annie knew wasn’t really fair or nice of her and that her teammate deserved better, but she kept catching glimpses of Reiner and Bertolt out of the corner of her eye. She’d turn for a better look and they’d already be off to somewhere else. Together, as the universe apparently wanted them to be. The universe, and quite possibly the Reisses. Everyone was clamoring for ReiBert.  
  
  
The clue Reiner and Bertolt found with the stash in the blender was one that anyone could have figured out:  
  
 _We’ve long since come out but you should go in, for here you will find the biggest reward yet._  
  
“Clearly it’s referring to the closet,” Reiner said, wrinkling his nose as he read it. “But we already checked all the closets and didn’t hit a jackpot. Somebody else must have gotten there first.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s the case,” Bertolt said. His brain, already skeptical of the game, was not going to accept such an easy explanation, not when Ymir was involved. “The closets were probably among the first places every team checked. I doubt Ymir would put the ‘biggest reward yet’ in such an obvious hiding place. And why was this clue pointing to the closet hidden in a spot only we would find?”  
  
“What are you saying, Bertl?” Reiner asked.  
  
Bertolt pursed his mouth. What he wanted to say was that Ymir and Historia had rigged the game in their favor, but it occurred to him that he could be reading too much into things and jumping to that conclusion would invariably lead to the question of motive. It was too much to think about now. “I’m saying we need to give the closets a second, more thorough look or think of some closet that nobody would have checked.”  
  
“Hmm.” Reiner scratched his jaw—a bit stubbly, he needed a shave—and furrowed his brow, little actions to make it look like he was thinking hard. He was thinking hard, he just knew he wasn’t as good at it as Bertolt so he made a show of it. Really he didn’t mind Bertolt being cleverer than him, he adored Bertolt’s intellect, but it would be cool if he could impress Bertolt with his own insights at least once. “I don’t suppose it could mean the hatch behind the great big shoe thingy in the basement closet. You know, the one that Ymir said was like a closet inside a closet?”  
  
“Closetception?” Bertolt asked, a name that would have been a weak joke if it had come from Ymir but had been supplied by Historia and so was oddly endearing at the time. But rapidly forgotten. Just the sort of clue those two would come up with. “I never would have remembered that but you’re right, Reiner. It fits. You’re a genius.”  
  
“I dunno about that,” said Reiner modestly. It was hyperbole, utter exaggeration, but it made his head feel delightfully floaty for a moment.  
  
“Come on, let’s go check it out.” Bertolt was genuinely excited now, caught up in the thrill of the hunt and eager to make sense of all this.  
  
The basement closet was an overflow receptacle, a place to put things that didn’t quite fit anywhere else, so the contents were an incongruous mishmash: rarely used sporting equipment, tupperware tubs of decorations for holidays too minor to merit decorations (who actually puts up an Arbor Day banner?), a collection of vintage 1980s My Little Pony figures still immaculate in their original packages, and of course an enormous shelf full of custom painted Chuck Taylor shoes that nobody ever wore. Behind this shelf was a hatch, the edge of it just barely visible, which opened to a crawlspace.  
  
Bertolt and Reiner closed the closet door in what was probably a pointless campaign to deter fellow treasure hunters who might try to piggyback on their lead somehow.  
  
“Those two certainly put some work into the game,” said Reiner as he positioned himself with a shoulder against one side of the shelf, ready to push.  
  
“Here, let me help with that,” said Bertolt, grabbing hold from the other side to pull.  
  
Reiner made a little grunt-laugh. “Don’t worry, I got this. It’s not too heavy. I’ll move the shelf and you can be the one to go in the crawlspace. You’re longer and narrower than me, and besides, small places give me the heebie-jeebies.”  
  
“Ah, right,” said Bertolt, a fresh bloom of sweat tingling on his forehead and the back of his neck. He didn’t like crawlspaces. He had a bad history with crawlspaces. But that was his half of this mission and he knew it had less to do with his physical dimensions than with the fact that Reiner was the strong one suited to moving the shelf. Bertolt would have preferred that role, but he couldn’t fake muscle power—he could fake being brave.  
  
Though he let out a small growl as he pushed, Reiner didn’t appear to exert himself much in moving the shoe shelf out of the way. “At least it’s got a handle,” he said, nodding towards the hatch. “We don’t need a screwdriver to open it.”  
  
Bertolt swallowed, a thick glob of saliva catching in his throat. A screwdriver had been his tool of choice for getting into the crawlspace in his bedroom. “I guess I will go in and look for the treasure,” he said and dropped down to his knees.  
  
Entering on his hands, Bertolt found himself ensconced in dreadful familiarity—the darkness and the narrowness, the hot, stale fiberglass-scented air and the wooden planks creaking beneath his weight. In shacks, houses, or mansions crawlspaces were eerily the same.  
  
“See anything?” Reiner called in to him.  
  
“It’s too dark,” Bertolt answered. “I wish I’d thought to bring a flashlight.”  
  
“Want me to go and find one?”  
  
 _No_ , Bertolt thought. _Don’t leave me, Reiner_. But he chose different words, braver words for his response: “That’s okay. I’ll just feel around with my hands.”  
  
As he ventured deeper and the light from outside dimmed, his breaths came quicker, his heartbeat turned to heavy thumps. The sound of blood pulsing through the vessels in his ears mimicked a distant shuffling of feet: Ma and Pop fighting, Pop coming to find him.  
  
“Anything?” called Reiner and though he wasn’t far away, his voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.  
  
“Not yet.” Bertolt tried to say it calmly but could hear the croaky edge of panic in the words; hopefully Reiner couldn’t. All he wanted was to get out of there, but he couldn’t emerge empty-handed. His fingers groped desperately around him, knocking up clouds of dust he couldn’t see but could taste and smell and feel sticking in his lungs. He coughed spastically and the coughing turned to hyperventilation, which sucked in more dust and lead to more coughing.  
  
“Are you okay in there?”  
  
“No!” The panic attack stripped Bertolt of the ability to speak anything but the rawest and most immediate truth. “I need to get out of here!” He scrabbled backwards on his knees and the balls of his hands, hot black air filled his eyes and ears and mouth. His hand slipped in a slick of his own sweat and when he straightened himself back up the top of his skull thwacked against a beam overhead and white starbursts popped behind his eyes.  
  
“I’ve got you, Bertl!” Reiner yelled.  
  
Bertolt, head still swooning, felt the pressure of strong hands grab hold of his ankles and he continued to scuttle back clumsily with his arms as Reiner pulled him by his legs. His only goal was escape, but when his finger brushed against an object he snatched it. Reiner’s hands shifted to his hips and immediately he felt safer. Another second later he was back on the floor of the closet, panting on sweet, cool air and squinting against the harsh seventy-watt light.  
  
“S-sorry,” he said between heaving breaths. “I had—a panic attack and I—hit my head. But look.” He held up the object he’d grabbed at the last moment, a drawstring burlap pouch fat and bulgy with tokens.  
  
Reiner took only a cursory glance and then turned full attention back to Bertolt. His heart was still throbbing in his throat; he’d been terrified and it would take a minute or two for the symptoms to fully resolve. “I don’t care about that, Bertolt. I only care that you’re okay. Jesus, that scared the shit out of me. I’ve never seen you have a panic attack before.”  
  
“I’d never had one before,” said Bertolt. He pulled up the v of his v-neck shirt and wiped the film of sweat and dust from his face with the inside of it. “I thought I could handle the crawlspace, but I guess I couldn’t. I’m sorry, Reiner.”  
  
“You don’t have to apologize,” said Reiner, scooting closer. “I should have asked you if you had a problem with small spaces. It’s my fault, Bertolt.”  
  
Bertolt’s breaths were slow and deep now, on their way back to normal, but his face was still ashen. “Small spaces aren’t really the problem.” He paused to rearrange his long legs, hugging his knees to his chest in the pose Reiner knew he adopted when he felt vulnerable. “It’s crawlspaces specifically. The crawlspace in my bedroom is where I would hide from my dad when he would—when he would do bad things to me and my mom. I guess it left an impression on me.”  
  
This was information Bertolt had never shared before. Instantly, Reiner saw it in his mind—tiny Bertolt tucked into his crawlspace, sitting just as he was now, but trembling, his face smeared with tears—and he could actually feel his heart break, a searing pang in the very center of his chest. He threw his arms around Bertolt and held him in a fierce embrace, pressing his forehead against Bertolt’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Bertl,” he said, voice cracking. “I should have asked. I should have asked.”  
  
The sudden bear hug caught Bertolt by surprise, not in an unpleasant way. Reiner’s voice was fragile with emotion—for the first time since that night back in Philadelphia (the night Marcel had died), Reiner was letting himself sound weak. No, weak wasn’t the right word. Breakable. Bertolt brimmed with affection for him and adjusted his arms so he could return the embrace full force. “It’s okay,” he said in a gentle voice next to Reiner’s ear. “I’m the one who should have told you. It’s my fault. I always want to be brave when I’m around you, Reiner.”  
  
Reiner loosened his hold on Bertolt, not a full release of the embrace, but enough to pull back and take in Bertolt’s handsome face. “Kind of like how I always want to be smart when I’m around you,” he said.  
  
Bertolt’s mouth curled into a smile just wide enough to show a thin white sliver of teeth. “You are smart,” he said, like it was a plain fact that Reiner had merely forgotten.  
  
“You are brave,” said Reiner, emphasizing each word. Then he reached a hand to Bertolt’s face, touched his fingertips under the warm ridge of Bertolt’s jaw and swiped the pad of his thumb through a patch of grime on Bertolt’s cheek. “You missed a spot with your shirt.”  
  
The hug had been a pleasant surprise, but this spontaneous contact made Bertolt quiver.  
  
Was that a shiver or a shudder? Reiner couldn’t tell. He withdrew his hand—not too quickly or it would look like he was recoiling—and looked to Bertolt’s face for a hint, something he could decipher in the green depths of those eyes that might tell him what Bertolt was thinking right now. But there was nothing, or if there was, Reiner couldn’t separate it from his own wishful thinking. For something to happen he would have to speak up; for him to know how Bertolt felt, he would have to say how he felt first.  
  
The moment had arrived, here in this closet full of bric-a-brac.  
  
Heart jackhammering, Reiner moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and parted them to speak. “Bertolt, there’s something I want to tell you. Need to tell you.” The voice he produced was soft, almost reedy, but if he made it any louder he feared it would splinter.  
  
“Yeah?” Bertolt asked, two tiny creases appearing between his eyebrows.  
  
“The truth is, I—”  
  
“ _There_ you are.” The interrupting declarative came with a waft of fresh air and the sight of Ymir’s sharp face in the opened doorway. “Been looking all over for you two, treasure hunt’s been over for—” She paused mid sentence and scrutinized them for a second, narrowing her eyes and then widening them again as the smirk took shape on her face. “Did I interrupt something?”  
  
Bertolt felt a pearl of sweat crawling down his temple. He opened his mouth, but only a bewildered “Uh” came out, so he held up the bag of tokens, which rattled faintly in his shaky hand, hoping it would provide an answer since language had abandoned him.  
  
“Hey, you found it!” Ymir said brightly, just as Historia’s pretty face peered into the closet from behind her.  
  
“Oh dear, did we arrive at a bad time?” Historia asked, her head tilted to the side so her pale hair fell down like a sheet of satin.  
  
“It’s okay,” said Reiner. That sugary voice and fairy-cute face eased his frustration; he could get mad at Ymir for barging in on his confession, but not Historia. When he connected his gaze with hers, he could see it in her eyes that she understood the situation and was sorry and he tried to project back his own silent message: _It really is okay, Historia. This wasn’t the moment. Please keep cheering for me._  
  
“Well don’t just stay there of the floor,” said Ymir, impatiently. She most certainly knew what had been about to happen when she opened the door, but gave no indication of remorse. “It’s time to count up the booty and award the grand prize so come out of the closet already you two.”  
  
Reiner flashed Ymir an unamused look in return for that last wry remark then hoisted himself up to his feet and offered his hand to Bertolt.  
  
“Th-thanks,” Berolt said as Reiner pulled him up. Standing so suddenly made him momentarily lightheaded. Or maybe that came from Reiner. His anticipation for whatever Reiner had been about to say was enough to make Bertolt hold his breath, even though he had no idea what it could be. It was the way Reiner touched his face beforehand, the way Reiner said the word need, his tone infusing it with meaning.  
  
 _Foiled_ , Reiner thought, raking five fingers through his short hair and finding it unusually damp for being inside the air-conditioned house all day. He wished he could have thought: _Curses! Foiled again!_ But this had been his first real attempt to confess to Bertolt and he wasn’t a villain on Scooby-Doo. All he could do now was try to act cool and wait for another opportunity. If he could recover his nerves, that is.  
  
“So how much treasure did we reel in?” he asked Bertolt as the two of them walked side-by-side, following Ymir and Historia up the stairs and back to party central.  
  
Bertolt shook the burlap bag and the plastic discs inside jangled. “There’s got to be at least a hundred tokens in here. This really is the motherlode.”  
  
“I don’t want to sound cocky or anything, but I think we might be the frontrunners in this competition,” said Reiner quietly enough that only Bertolt could hear. They were in the living room now, surrounded by all of the other teams. Sacks of treasure were on display in cupped hands and dangling from fists but not one looked as full as theirs and they hadn’t even added their latest (and greatest) acquisition.  
  
“It sure looks that way,” Bertolt whispered back. “So, do you think we are about to become the proud new owners of the State of South Carolina? I hear Myrtle Beach is lovely this time of year.” He didn’t make jokes very often, but this one—a rather bland offering—slipped out without premeditation, which occasionally happened when he was anxious or excited.  
  
Reiner grinned at Bertolt’s dumb joke, couldn’t help it. “Mini golf capital of the world. Wouldn’t have to wait behind anybody if we owned the whole State.”  
  
“Time for the weigh in!” Ymir hollered from her chair podium. Historia wasn’t at her side this time but was standing on the floor in front of a small table on top of which rested the digital scale from the kitchen. Ymir continued: “All the tokens are the same size and weight so this works just as well as counting. Oh, and my lovely wife will be checking each booty sack for any illicit additions, so don’t try to cheat by tossing in your watch or whatever.”  
  
“Step right up!” shouted Historia, like the world’s daintiest carny.  
  
“Guess we’d better consolidate our assets,” said Reiner, unzipping the ziplock treasure sack. “Dump it on in, Bertl.”  
  
“Ah, right.” Bertolt opened the drawstring bag and upended it into the ziplock, tokens dropping in a shimmering cascade of artificial gold. And one incongruous, rectangular bit of white. “Missed a piece of paper,” he said and reached in to pincer it out of the pile.  
  
“Another clue?” Reiner asked, scrunching his nose. “Didn’t think there’d be any more of those after finding the ultimate jackpot.”  
  
“Me neither,” said Bertolt. “Why I didn’t bother to look. It doesn’t really matter now since the game is over, but it does make me wonder just how much treasure those two hid around their house.”  
  
Reiner shrugged. “Might as well unfold it and see what it says.”  
  
Bertolt did. On the paper was a single sentence, written in blue ink in an elegantly curling script just like the previous clues—only now did it occur to him that this must be Historia’s hand, since he’d seen enough of Ymir’s marginalia in the books he borrowed to recognize her crabbed scrawls—but this one didn’t read like a clue.  
  
 _Happiness is within your grasp._  
  
Neither of them commented on the note, even after enough time had passed staring at it that one of them should have or shifted attention elsewhere.  
  
There was no doubt in Reiner’s mind that this message was for him, from Historia. He’d spent the duration of the treasure hunt trying to conceal his mounting suspicions that the whole game was an elaborate setup and now, at last, he had the conclusive bit of evidence he needed to clinch his theory. Ymir had been an ardent collaborator for sure, but Historia—dreamy, innocent-looking Historia—was the mastermind behind this project, and her objectives were quite clear: have Reiner spend an hour working one-on-one with the best friend he pined after, force him to reflect on all of the reasons he loved this man so damn much, and finish with a final push for him to confess his feelings.  
  
No wonder she’d looked so apologetic after she and Ymir had invaded the closet.  
  
Even though the handwriting was Historia’s, Bertolt knew the words came from Ymir, a special message just for him. Taken on it’s own, the sentence was just a generic fortune cookie sentiment, but as the final clue of this extremely questionable treasure hunt, Bertolt knew there was more to it than that. This was the crowning detail of Ymir’s grand scheme, the thing to bring it all together—since there was no more treasure to find, or at least no bigger treasure to find, the clue was for solving the meta-mystery of the game, the big Why. Why had Ymir rigged the hunt so that Bertolt would get to team up with Reiner instead of a stranger and the two of them would in all likelihood win?  
  
He thought about the last time he and Ymir had talked about happiness: Tuesday night, Karaoke Night, the smoothie break. What was it she had said?  
  
 _“What if one of your them just saw you as a friend, but one of them was madly in love with you?”_  
  
It was something like that. And she’d made her opinion on the matter clear.  
  
 _“If I loved two people and had a chance to be happy with one of them, I would take it and not dwell on the other.”_  
  
A hot, sweet pain blossomed beneath Bertolt’s ribs as understanding took hold in his brain. Since Ymir had engineered the treasure so that he would be paired with Reiner, it must mean that she had learned, definitively, that Annie did not love him. How she’d learned it, he couldn’t even fathom, what with Annie being so reserved, but somehow she had. It wasn’t as if Bertolt actually thought Annie could love him. So why did it feel like a part of his heart was breaking?  
  
And another part of his heart was elating. Because the other implication of Ymir’s laboriously delivered message was that Reiner did love him. Might love him. Could love him. Could he? Had Reiner told Ymir as much? Or maybe he’d told Historia, who had passed it on to her wife as they lay chatting in bed and together they had planned this stunt. His logic zigzagged: It was too incredible for him to believe. But Ymir, devilish though she could be, would not deceive him when it came to something so serious. But maybe his interpretation of the game was totally wrong. But how else could he interpret it? But just because Ymir was apparently pushing him to pursue Reiner didn’t mean it was the right thing to do. And he still loved Annie, would always love Annie.  
  
There wasn’t a line for the treasure weigh in; the clustered pairs simply circulated the room, those closest to the table stepping up to have their spoils appraised and then moving to the back of the crowd while others shuffled forward. As Historia weighed the bags, Ymir shouted out the results over the hum of chit-chat.  
  
Team Annie-Mina was one of the first to pass through, their measly five tokens weighing so little as to earn a patronizing comment—“Aw, tough luck”—from Ymir, delivered with exaggerated sympathy. Fortunately, Mina was not disheartened by their failure, moving on with a shrug and a smile, and didn’t mention Annie’s lack of interest in the game as a contributing factor in their poor performance (even though it absolutely was). Once Mina left her side to mingle with other cheerful non-winners, Annie retreated to an isolated spot at the very back of the room and watched from an inconspicuous distance as Reiner and Bertolt handed their bloated treasure bag to Historia, who plopped it down on the scale.  
  
“Eight-hundred and one grams!” Ymir boomed. “Folks, I think we have our winners!” She hopped down from her chair and threw her arms around Reiner and Bertolt’s shoulders, grinning a lupine grin. “Get up on that podium, you two, so we can present you with your prize!”  
  
The two men didn’t fit on top of the chair nearly as well as wiry Ymir and wispy Historia, and they had to cling to each other, teetering precariously. Annie frowned. She had to hand it to those crafty Reisses, though; they really had thought of everything. So what would the prize be? Diamond engagement rings? Wedding in Hawaii?  
  
When Historia stood up, she held a large golden envelope in one hand (retrieved from who knows where—under the table?) and wrapped the other around Ymir’s waste as the two of them took their place next to the elevated duo.  
  
Ymir did the announcing while Historia held out the envelope on a flat, upthrust palm. “Reiner and Bertolt, in recognition of your superior treasure hunting skills, we, Historia and Ymir Reiss, would like to present you with a fully paid dinner reservation for two at Sirvé Cor.”  
  
The crowd _oohed_ and _ahed_. Annie rolled her eyes.  
  
“And not just any dinner reservation,” Historia said. “This is the twelve-course chef’s menu prepared by the world renowned molecular gastronomist, Hange Zoë.”  
  
Now the room was crackling like live wire and Annie could tell from the bewildered smiles on Reiner and Bertolt’s faces that they had no idea who this Hange person was (neither did Annie) and were more confused than excited. But they would be excited, or at least Reiner would, once it sank in that he’d won a romantic dream date with Bertolt. She watched Bertolt take the golden envelope from Historia’s hand, the chair wobbling as his weight shifted and Reiner putting a hand on his lower back to steady him.  
  
“Thank you both so much,” said Bertolt, barely loud enough to reach the back of the room. His face gleamed with sweat, burning from the heat of so many eyes on him.  
  
 _Let him get down already_ , Annie thought aggressively, as if she could beam it into Ymir and Historia’s brains. _Can’t you see how uncomfortable he is?_  
  
“Congratulations, you two!” Ymir shouted and the crowd applauded. “Now get offa my chair so we can serve the cake!”  
  
 _Good_ , thought Annie, but she still wasn’t happy. She wasn’t in the mood for socializing with anyone and she definitely wasn’t in the mood for congratulating the winners. Now that the idiotic game was over, she could probably get away with skulking off to her room. After cake, she decided when she saw it being wheeled in on a cart by Ilse the caterer, a colossal three-tiered masterpiece ribboned in buttercream piping and topped with miniature figures of Ymir and Historia made out of candy.  
  
The party ended shortly after cake; Annie knew this because Ymir came and knocked on her door shortly after she’d shut herself inside with her loaded paper plate.  
  
“It’s safe to come out now, Ice Queen,” said Ymir. “People are gone. Mina Carolina told me to tell you she was happy to meet you. Bet she would’ve appreciated a goodbye from you, though. Anyway, you can come down at your leisure.”  
  
That guilt trip over Mina stung, because as annoyed as Annie was with Ymir right now, she knew Ymir was right. She’d been too upset over the blatant ReiBert agenda of the treasure hunt to be a useful partner and then she’d run away at the first chance she got. This was just a really shitty day all around. What she needed was another piece of cake. Grabbing her frosting-smeared plate from her bedside table, she headed down to face the others.  
  
Historia and Ymir and Reiner and Bertolt were all sitting with loose postures on the c-shaped sofa, surrounded by the wreckage of the party: the tables with their picked over trays of food, lumpen trash bags scattered randomly throughout the room like boulders, and the mutilated (but somehow still appetizing) remains of the formerly pristine cake laid out on its slab. A four-way conversation was already in progress when Annie arrived so she kept back and just listened for a minute.  
  
“So this Survey Corps place is really good, huh?” asked Reiner.  
  
“It’s _Sirvé Cor_ ,” said Ymir.  
  
Reiner grunted. “That’s what I said.”  
  
“Yeah, I know, but I could tell from the way you said it that you were misspelling it in your head.” Ymir paused to swing her legs up onto Historia’s lap before continuing. “And yes it is _really_ good.”  
  
“Or so we’ve heard,” said Historia, messaging Ymir’s calves. “We’ve never actually been. You see, we’ve had this reservation for almost a year. That’s how long the wait is for Chef Hange’s special dinner. It was going to be our Second Anniversary date, but we’ve got the pool and landscape people coming tonight, so—”  
  
“It’s tonight?” Bertolt asked with a just barely audible hint of distress.  
  
“Wait,” said Annie, interrupting the discussion and making her presence known. “You two chose to give away the dinner reservation you had to make a year in advance rather than rescheduling the pool upgrade? That’s kind of strange, don’t you think?”  
  
Ymir flashed her a superior smirk. “Not at all. What we wanted most out of our anniversary was to share it with the people we care about. And what better way to show them how much their support means to us than by giving a random pair of them such an incredible experience?”  
  
Annie’s lips twitched. Random pair? Seriously? Now Ymir was just messing with her for fun.  
  
“Um,” Bertolt said, hand raised halfway like a timid schoolboy answering a question. “Excuse me, but did you say the dinner is tonight? Because, well, the truth is I don't really have anything I can wear out to a nice restaurant.”  
  
Ymir dropped the smile, her face melting into a disappointed pout that didn't suit her at all. “Ah man, that really sucks, Longshanks. Unfortunately, Sirvé Cor does have a very classy dress code.” She let out a long, dramatic sigh. “So I guess you’ll just have to accept one more gift from us.” Somewhere in the middle of the sentence she had picked the smile back up.  
  
Historia was beaming. “May I do the honors?” she asked.  
  
“Only fitting since you picked all of it out,” Ymir said, lifting her legs so Historia could hop up and scamper off.  
  
Annie sank down sullenly into the empty space at one end of the sofa, her usual seat. “There’s just no end to your generosity, is there?” she said flatly.  
  
Before Ymir could retort, Historia returned clutching more shopping bags. “Evening wear,” she said as she handed one to Bertolt and one to Reiner.  
  
“Sweet!” said Reiner, peering into the bag.  
  
Bertolt sighed. “Seeing as I already told you this morning that we couldn’t accept such extravagant gifts and got shut down, I won’t even try this time. I’ll just say thank you. Thank you very much.”  
  
“Aw, it was nothing, Longshanks,” Ymir said, full of overplayed humility. “You’re welcome.”  
  
“So you just happened to have appropriate attire for these two on hand?” Annie folded her arms in front of her, uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way, arched an eyebrow. “Why it’s almost as if you planned for them to win this dinner.”  
  
Historia gave a fluttery chortle. “Well of course we planned for it. Or a guess a better way to put it is that we made sure we were prepared for the possibility. I mean, just in case any one of you was on the winning team. There’s also a dress for you, by the way, Annie.” She held out the last of her shopping bags and when Annie didn’t unfold her arms set it down next to Annie’s feet.  
  
“We weren’t trying to be presumptuous or anything,” said Ymir. “It’s just that we’ve seen all the clothes the three of you own and, no offense, but what Bertl says applies to all of you. Not one of you owned anything suitable for Sirvé Cor.”  
  
And with that Annie was officially done. Out. Up went her hands, palms forward in surrender. _Okay, enough, you win. I know your stupid party game was an elaborate matchmaking ploy and you both know that I know but you still aren’t going to admit it. You even bought me a dress I’ll never wear just to use as a prop in your defense case. I give up._  
  
“I think I’m going to head back upstairs,” she said. “I actually just came down here for more cake. Thanks for the dress anyway. Even though I didn’t win.” _And you two knew damn well that I wouldn’t._ “Take care everyone.”  
  
She stood, picked up her bag—if Ymir was hoping she’d pass it along to Historia, she was sorely mistaken—and stopped at the cake to carve herself off an extra large brick from the one corner that was still intact before heading back up to her bedroom to be alone. She didn’t want to be alone. But she had nobody to be with. Reiner would make his move tonight, she could feel it in her marrow, and Bertolt would either accept or reject his love. With the happiness of her two most precious people on the line, Annie knew which outcome she should be rooting for, but the truth was that imagining any possible ending for this night left her utterly desolated.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more section and then it will be on to the finale! I will work hard!


	3. 下

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reiner plans to confess his feelings for Bertolt during the amazing dinner date they "won." Annie finally understands her own feelings for Bertolt, thanks to the green-eyed monster. And Bertolt is adorable, which somewhat justifies everyone having feelings for him. Everything comes to a head in this final chapter of the penultimate volume of the series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last. This is a long one. I'll save the real notes for the end. Infinity thank yous to everyone who has commented, given kudos, or just read this series. Your support means the world to me. Special thanks to Zillyhwen and Carlile, who helped me a lot with my despair I experienced while writing this.

Bertolt had never owned a suit before. He’d only ever worn a suit once in his life, to August Leonhart’s funeral, and it had been one of Reiner’s so on Bertolt it had been too loose in the chest and shoulders and too short in the arms and legs. He’d felt rather ridiculous in it. But even with just that single bad experience for reference, he could discern that the suit Historia Reiss had picked out for him was of superb quality and style. It was charcoal grey and, according to Historia, was Italian cut (whatever that entailed). Stitching inside the cuffs and shoulders appeared to have been done by very dexterous hands, which indicated custom tailoring, and though Bertolt had assumed this was something that required the wearer to be present to try on the unaltered apparel first (or at the very least be measured), when he put on the suit it fit like it had been made just for him.  
  
According to the digital clock on the bedside table, it was still twenty minutes before he and Reiner were to embark, in a taxi scheduled by Ymir, for dinner at the renowned Sirvé Cor. He felt a little foolish for having dressed so far in advance; it was a habit of his to prepare too early when he was nervous or excited and tonight he was both in spades. So far, nobody had actually used the word date in reference to this grand prize dinner, but it definitely felt like a date to Bertolt. A date with Reiner. His best friend of thirteen years. Dashing, handsome, charming Reiner Leonhart.  
  
Bertolt wondered what Reiner thought about this dinner. Did he think it was a date? And what had he made of the treasure hunt? Reiner was no idiot; he would have picked up that the game was rigged in their favor, but did he know why? Bertolt wasn’t certain that he himself fully knew why. His theory that Ymir was spurring him to pursue his feelings for Reiner and to bury or subdue his feelings for Annie was the only one that made sense to him, but that didn’t mean it was correct. And even if it was he was still flummoxed as to her reasoning.  
  
Why was Ymir pushing him towards Reiner? What did she know?  
  
A fresh crop of nervous sweat oozed from Bertolt’s pores when he considered (for hundredth or so time that afternoon) the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Reiner did have feelings for him that fell outside the normal boundaries best friendship. But how could he know for sure without revealing his own love first? And what would he do if it was true? Could they really be together like that? How would they make that transition from friends to lovers? His brain reminded him that when he’d made love to Annie the results had been a quiet disaster and he felt a twist of queasiness in his guts. But she wasn’t in love with him, right? This was different.  
  
Being in love with two people had been so much easier when he was certain that both would remain forever unrequited.  
  
He walked over to check himself in the full-length mirror inside the closet door, just to see how much of a nervous wreck he looked. It was not as bad as he feared: his face was shiny with sweat, definitely in need of a thorough blotting, and his hair was still damp from the shower and a bit unruly, but the overall image was surprisingly put-together. All credit for that had to go to the suit—apparently the clothes really did make the man. He considered putting on Grandpa’s Super Bowl ring but decided against it, fearing that in his current psychological state he was liable to fidget it off and lose it somewhere.  
  
Another glance at the clock told him the personal appraisal had taken all of one minute, leaving him with nineteen still left to kill. Nineteen minutes was plenty of time for his anxiety to snowball out of control. He needed something to calm him, something peaceful.  
  
The window above his bed glowed a grainy tangerine orange through the bamboo shade. It was getting close to sunset time and though Bertolt would have to leave before the most colorful part, when the last sliver of daylight pooled on the horizon like molten iron in a smelting ladle, he figured he may as well go out and catch what he could from the balcony.  
  
Outside it was still hot, but the brutal humidity from earlier in the day had lifted, a not unwelcome shift from jungle to desert clime. Because the balcony faced West and the terrain below sloped downward, Bertolt had an unobstructed view of the setting sun from where he stood, but almost immediately his eyes found something far more beautiful to look at. Standing before the balustrade with her arms folded on top of the handrail and her gaze cast out over the valley like a fisherman’s widow staring at the sea, was Annie.  
  
She was wearing a gauzy red dress of minimalistic design which exposed vast sweeps of ivory skin: arms, shoulders, and neck, along with generous portions of her back and lean, muscular legs. Her feet were tucked inside a pair of most un-Annie-like high-heeled shoes, also red, which Bertolt realized were not actually strapped around her ankles when she lifted one foot out to scratch the opposite calf with her big toenail. So this was the outfit Historia had selected for her to wear to the dinner she was never going to attend.  
  
When Annie didn’t turn around or make any noise of acknowledgement, Bertolt took it to mean that she hadn’t heard him come out onto the balcony and he became suddenly very aware of every tiny sound his body made—the soft rush of air in his nostrils and the muted thumps of his heart—afraid that if she noticed him there the scene would dissolve like dandelion spores on a breeze. God she was breathtaking.  
  
“I know you’re there, Bertl,” she said without turning, her voice clear and sharp and so unanticipated it made Bertolt draw in a small gasp.  
  
Annie had fled to the balcony to try not to think about Bertolt Hoover—also to get a little sweat on her speciously bestowed dress just so it couldn’t be returned—but there really was no escape, was there? When she heard a door open and shut and bare feet pad a few steps on wood she didn’t even have to look to know it was Bertolt. She was hesitant to turn around and look at him, especially dressed as she was, like some sad stood up girl on prom night, but she’d addressed his presence so now she supposed she’d have to face him.  
  
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for—” She began the sentence as she was peeling away from the railing but lost the end of it when she laid eyes on him. “Wow, Bertolt, you look incredible.”  
  
 _It’s the suit_ , Bertolt reminded himself, trying hopelessly to quell the uptick in his heart rate with reason. _It’s just the suit that looks incredible._ “Thanks,” he said and lifted a flap of the jacket to show her the silk lining inside and the crisp white shirt beneath. “I don’t know a lot about suits, but I am pretty sure this is a good one. Must’ve cost a fortune.”  
  
Annie stepped out of her shoes and walked over to him on bare feet. He gulped as both of her hands reached out to touch his lapels.  
  
“Oh yes, it’s definitely high end,” Annie said. This close up—close enough that she could smell his clean sweat and distinguish the heat coming off of his body from the heat of the sinking sun—it was extremely difficult to keep her focus on the suit instead of the man inside it. “There’s even a loop for a flower under here.”  
  
“A flower?” Bertolt barely processed what she’d said, distracted by the scent of her hair and the way the sun made her skin glow like backlit alabaster.  
  
She walked over to a potted hibiscus plant that was almost as tall as she was and returned to him with a blossom the same red as her dress, freshly snapped from its stalk.  
  
“Here,” she said as she tucked it into the loop under his lapel. “Your tie is green so it looks kind of stupid, too Christmassy. You don’t have to keep it. I just wanted to show you how it works.” She was talking to his chest, still reluctant to look up at his face. Then she felt the feathery touch of his fingers just barely grazing her shoulder and she abruptly tilted her head upwards.  
  
“S-sorry!” he said. “There was a bug on you! Honest!” He really had been shooing a bug, a ladybug that had more than likely hopped over from the hibiscus.  
  
“Oh,” she said, sounding relieved but feeling vaguely disappointed. Now that her eyes were on his face, she found herself unable to look away, compelled to study his features in all their strange beauty—the deep-set eyes, the strong nose, the soft mouth. After too many seconds she realized that she was staring and took a step back, dropping her eyes to the flower in feigned assessment.  
  
“I like the flower,” Bertolt said. “I think I’ll keep it.” Because Annie had given it to him; because it was the color of Annie’s dress; because when Annie attached it to his jacket his heart had done a hummingbird dance. He couldn’t bury his feelings for Annie just because Ymir told him that he should. It wasn’t that easy. “You, uh, you look beautiful in that dress,” he said. “It’s really a shame you can’t come with us tonight.”  
  
A hard, jagged lump rose in Annie’s esophagus at the reminder. That’s right, she’d been purposefully excluded from this super special dinner. No room in the Grand Gay Matchmakers’ Gambit for Annie; it was all about the ReiBert. She swallowed but the lump remained and her throat spasmed around it. “You’ll have a great time with Reiner,” she said, forcing as much cheer as she could into the sentiment, which was only enough to keep it from sounding like self-pity. “He’s always been more fun than me anyways.”  
  
“Fun is overrated,” said Bertolt. Annie’s face, bone-white and sculptural, flashed back up at his, a hint of a question in her eyes. “I didn’t mean that to sound like I’m not expecting to have a great time with Reiner,” he hastily added. “Of course I will. I always do. But I always have a great time with you, too, Annie. Even if it’s not ‘Woo! Pass the pizza! Let’s party!’ fun that we have together, just being near you makes me, well, happy.”  
  
Annie could have responded to him with any number of derisive jabs: about how dorky his conception of fun was, about how saccharine his wording was, about how foolish he was to consider time spent in the same room with her as being “together” when emotionally she’d been keeping herself so far away. All were valid points—Bertolt was dorky and saccharine and foolish, but those very qualities were the things she loved about him and she wasn’t going to tease him with them.  
  
“Thanks,” she said, wrapping her arms around her middle as a sudden feeling of vulnerability took her. Inexplicably, she had an urge to apologize to him, but for what she didn’t know exactly. For being the way she was. Cold to the core. She said nothing.  
  
Bertolt wanted to touch her so badly, stroke a knuckle over her smooth cheek or chuck her under the sharp v of her chin—if only there were another insect on her skin for him to brush away. No insect, but there was a stray wisp of hair that had fallen across the bridge of her nose, glued there by sweat. He reached out a hand and grasped the errant strands between two fingers, letting the damp hair slide between them as he swept it off her face. “I just wish that I could return the favor,” he said. “Make you happy.”  
  
Annie trembled in the deepest part of her, from Bertolt’s touch or his voice or his words. Or from all of it, all of him. Her body remembered this feeling as if it were something from a past life. It was the same visceral desire for him she’d experienced that night in the motel room after he’d rescued Luna. Where had it vanished to for all this time? And why had it only come back now, on the night when wanting him would hurt the most?  
  
“I’m happy enough,” she said. _Liar!_ her brain shouted. “You don’t need to worry about me. Really, Bertolt.”  
  
“I can’t help it,” he said. Now what was his next line? _I love you_ tingled like soda bubbles on the tip of his tongue. They were words he still could not say, especially now, mere minutes before he was set to go on a date with her brother—the other person that he loved—and leave her behind. He could tell her she was dear to him, but he knew an anemic version of his true feelings would only be met with a smile and an eye-roll and a perfunctory reassurance that it was mutual. He tried to think of what Annie would want to hear, rather than what he would want to say. “I’ll try, though. If it bothers you, Annie, I’ll try not to worry about you so much.”  
  
It didn’t actually bother her—not even a little bit—that Bertolt worried about her. That Bertolt still considered her somebody worth worrying about. Her throat dilated and her lips opened, but before she could form the first word, a high-pitched squeal pierced the air, demanding attention.  
  
“What was that?” Bertolt asked, eyes darting about in alarm. “Sounded human, but was it panic or pleasure?”  
  
A second shriek rang up from below, this one unmistakably delighted as it crumbled into a fit of hysterical giggles at the end, and was followed by a familiar bark of merry laughter. Historia and Ymir.  
  
“I’d venture a guess that the happy couple has gotten a little off task,” said Annie, stepping over to the balustrade to investigate. “Historia told me the two of them were going to get the pool area ready for installing the waterfall.”  
  
Bertolt was at her side and the two of them stood, peering downward, their elbows propped on the handrail, almost touching. From the balcony they had a clear overhead view of the Reisses’ pool, a shimmering blue lagoon roughly the shape of a butternut squash, with a perfectly round jacuzzi inlaid on one curved side. Historia and Ymir were dashing about on the adjacent patch of lawn, embroiled in what appeared from above to be a harrowing water battle, the former armed with a plastic bucket of soapy water and an arsenal of sponges while the latter wielded a garden hose with spray nozzle attached. Both were clad in shorts and tank tops, thoroughly soaked, and looked like they were having the time of their lives.  
  
“They’re kind of ridiculous those two,” Bertolt said, his tone somewhere between amusement and admiration. “You’ve got to admit, though, they do make a cute couple.”  
  
Annie watched as tiny Historia tackle-hugged Ymir from behind and the two women tumbled to the grass in a tangle, laughing like children. Even if they were a pair of meddling little schemers, their relationship with each other was honestly endearing. “Yeah,” said Annie. “They really do.”  
  
“Love really is amazing, huh?”  
  
Bertolt said this in an idle sort of way, not an actual question or a serious meditation, but it made Annie turn to look at him, his face in profile as he continued his observation of the Reisses. The way he’d said the word love, almost sighing it, was enough to convince Annie that he had experienced it for himself. And why wouldn’t he have? His heart was big and generous and capable of loving just as fiercely as anybody else.  
  
Maybe it was Reiner he loved. Maybe Bertolt was already in love with Reiner and wouldn’t need any coaxing to enter into a romantic relationship. In that case, they were both very lucky.  
  
And she was an idiot. She was an idiot who knew so little about love that she hadn’t realized that it was what she felt for Bertolt until after she’d fucked everything up. She loved him. She had loved him in one form or another since the day she’d met him, but now she knew that she wanted him. The desire she’d felt for him that night in the motel and again here tonight, it hadn’t vanished at all, she’d merely stomped it down into a deep dark pocket of her psyche and hadn’t let him close enough to her to draw it back out into the light until now.  
  
Her eyes traced the contours of his features, fixated on the delicate shape of his lips as she tried to remember what it had felt like to kiss them, to taste them. Beautiful lips she should have cherished for the brief moment they were hers. A beautiful body she should have explored to the fullest and imprinted every tactile detail of in her memory.  
  
She really was such an idiot.  
  
Now she was self-conscious, too aware of the silence that filled the small gap between them. She had to say something. Something true, about love, but with no hidden agenda. Bertolt was somebody she would never try to manipulate, ever.  
  
“I think the most amazing part is that anyone is lucky enough to be with the person they love and have that person love them back. With so much love going unrequited or unrecognized for what it is until too late, it really is amazing that it ever works out like it has for those two. Or for Mom and Dad, while it lasted.”  
  
Bertolt had been listening intently to Annie’s comment, but only took his eyes off the water fight to look at her at the very end, when she mentioned her Mom and Dad. Annie hadn’t spoken of her parents since—Bertolt couldn’t even remember when. This was significant somehow. “Your parents were very much in love,” he agreed.  
  
Annie’s mouth curled in a wistful half-smile. “When I was little, I thought their displays of affection were gross and annoying. Now, in retrospect, I think I can finally appreciate all their sappiness. They really were fortunate to have found each other.”  
  
“I think I know what you mean,” said Bertolt. “But then my parents are an example of what can happen when love goes horribly wrong. They both would have been better off if they’d never met. Well, my Ma would. Pop would probably still have been an asshole.” He’d started talking about his own parents just to keep the conversation going, to keep Annie talking about the most private thoughts she’d shared with him in what felt like (and, come to think of it, had been) years, but now he realized that he didn’t know what point he was trying to make and was forced to pause and chuckle awkwardly.  
  
“But if they hadn’t met, you wouldn’t have been born, Bertolt. And I never would have met you, which would have been a great tragedy.” Even if the end result was a life on the run, a scar on her stomach and a broken heart, she was so grateful to have met him.  
  
There was no humor in Annie’s voice, no hint that she’d meant this as a joke; she was completely serious. She was telling him that her world was better for having him in it, even with all the shit he’d unintentionally put her through, and it struck such a chord of joy inside him that it took him several seconds to think up an appropriate response. “I’m just glad you called out to me that day, when you told me to jump over to your balcony.” His version of the same idea, that their meeting was fate.  
  
“I’m just glad you jumped,” said Annie. “And that you didn’t plummet to an early death of course.” Her heart was throbbing at the base of her throat. This was the closest she’d been to Bertolt—physically and emotionally—since that night almost two years ago. She wanted to break open and tell him everything, that she loved him and that for a too short span of time she’d carried their baby inside of her. She wanted to fall into his arms. But she couldn’t. It was too late.  
  
“That balcony was our place, wasn’t it?” said Bertolt. “I mean all three of us. Reiner too of course. But you know what I’m talking about.” He was thinking about the day of her Dad’s funeral, a summer scorcher just like today, when the two of them had briefly been alone, just like they were now, and he had sung _Wonderwall_ for her. Suddenly he wanted to sing for her again, no karaoke music and no one else in the audience, just his voice for Annie’s ears.  
  
“The balcony was ours,” said Annie, leaving the pronoun undefined. Yes, Reiner had to be included, but the specific memory she was accessing now had been just her and Bertolt. What she wouldn’t give to hear his _Wonderwall_ again. She wanted to hear it so badly that she imagined she heard him clearing his throat in preparation.  
  
And then she heard a door opening and footsteps on wood.  
  
“Ah, there you are,” Reiner said. “I was looking for you, Bertl. Taxi’ll be here in five. Are you just about ready?”  
  
“Hey,” said Bertolt, turning his attention to Reiner and blinking like he’d been pulled out of a dream, which was exactly how he felt. “Uh, yeah, I’ve just got to wash my face and put on my shoes. Then I’ll be good to go.” He looked back at Annie again, so beautiful in her red dress, her sweat damp skin gleaming like a fire opal. He ached to stay with her but he needed to go.  
  
Reiner’s gaze followed Bertolt to the door and through it, back into the mansion. He hadn’t missed the flash of reluctance in Bertolt’s eyes when they made their parting glance at Annie. Insecurity jabbed him like a poisoned needle but he wouldn’t let it show. And who wouldn’t stare a bit too long at Annie in that dress? His sister was absolutely stunning in that dress. What he couldn’t fathom was why she was wearing it.  
  
“So, sis, is there a special reason you’re all dressed up?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Or did you just feel like making all other women look inferior by comparison?” He hoped it didn’t sound suspicious, like he was worried she was making a move on Bertolt or something. He wasn’t. Not really.  
  
Annie rolled her eyes at him. Did her brother perhaps suspect that she was trying to seduce Bertolt before he did? No, Reiner wasn’t insecure like that. And it wasn’t true anyways. “Don’t let your beloved ‘Krista’ hear you say that,” she said. “Or worse, Ymir. She might challenge you to a duel for insulting her fair lady.”  
  
“Fair enough,” said Reiner.  
  
Annie sighed. “I just wanted to try it on, even if I have nowhere special to wear it. It was still a gift and I intend to keep it.”  
  
“Well it looks incredible on you.” Reiner held back from telling her she should dress up in feminine clothes more often as such a comment was likely to earn him physical injury.  
  
“Look at who’s talking.” Annie stepped closer to her brother and reached for his blue necktie, which he’d knotted just a bit too sloppily for such a fine looking suit.  
  
And he certainly did look fine. Reiner’s suit was just as nice as Bertolt’s, a similar style, but tan instead of gray, and of course it was tailored to fit a stockier man who was somewhat less tall. Seeing him dressed to the nines like this, Annie was struck by how grown up her brother had become. They’d still been teenagers when they’d left their lives behind, but he was twenty-one now. If things had gone differently he might be on the cusp of his senior year of college. But there was more to his air of maturity than just the addition of a few years—it was a glint of secret wisdom in his eyes and the way he held his head just a bit more humbly than he used to. Annie suspected it came, in part, from being in love. Maybe now she would finally start to grow up too.  
  
Reiner stood still as Annie fixed his tie and fussed with his cuffs, his lapels, his collar. He’d never been very good at dressing up and figured even she knew better than he did. And it felt sisterly, the doting on his appearance, which was a rare and wonderful thing with Annie. Could she sense how nervous he was?  
  
Annie could feel the tension in her brother’s shoulders when she straightened his collar, the faint trembling in his hands when she fixed his cuffs: he was nervous. Of course he was. Tonight was his big night. He was going to tell Bertolt how he felt.  
  
“There,” she said, stepping back to admire him again now that she’d finished her adjustments. “I know I’ve called you a gorilla in the past, Reiner. But I’ve got to say, you are a gorilla who cleans up nicely.”  
  
“Thanks, Annie.” Reiner scratched his neck (and realized a beat too late that this just reinforced the simian analogy). He knew he really had to go, but he wished he had time to talk to his little sister before he did, get some sort of approval from her before he went after his heart’s desire. “I guess I should be on my way,” he said quietly.  
  
“You’ll have a wonderful evening,” Annie said, matching his soft tone as she looked into his eyes. _Take care of him,_ she wanted to say. _If he says he loves you back, never ever let him go. Love him with all your heart._ But those were things she was sure Reiner already knew so she just said, “Good luck.”  
  
After her brother was gone, Annie went back to the spot where she’d been standing before Bertolt had joined her. Down below the pool and landscape crew had arrived and were hauling over potted plants and materials for the new waterfall. Annie watched them only briefly and then returned to looking at the sun, determined to see the last drops of its light drain away. The corners of her eyes prickled but no tears came. Very quietly she sang to herself.  
  
 _“I said maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves me;_  
 _And after all, you’re my wonderwall.”_

* * *

  
  
Reiner felt buoyant on his way down the stairs, practically bouncing. He wasn’t any less nervous about his date—he couldn’t think of this dinner as anything other than as a date, particularly since he intended to make a love confession at some point during the course of it—but his mind was eased as far as Annie was concerned. She’d wished him good luck, which meant that she knew. Well, she had known for years that her big gay brother was in love with their childhood friend, but that “good luck” was for tonight, for the conversation she intuitively knew he was going to initiate with Bertolt. It was all the sisterly approval he needed.  
  
Bertolt was waiting in the foyer, his face freshly scrubbed and glowing, his dark hair combed down on his forehead. Reiner had always been fond of Bertolt’s sweet, gawky, copiously perspiring charm, but the sight of him in that suit made Reiner want to take it off, and not because it looked bad. Devastatingly handsome was the term that came to mind.  
  
“Hey Bertl,” he said and was greeted by that self-conscious little smile. “I take it the taxi hasn’t arrived yet.”  
  
“Not yet,” said Bertolt. He’d just re-washed his face, but he knew it wouldn’t last the evening. Not with his overactive pores and Reiner looking like that. Having spent the better part of thirteen years in the company of the two most beautiful people he’d ever met it was really no wonder why he sweat so much. And tonight they were both in top form. “You look good, Reiner,” he said. “Ridiculously good, actually.”  
  
Patches of heat flared on Reiner’s cheeks. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll bet you and I will be the best looking, uh, pair in this Survey Corps place.” Close call, he’d almost referred to them as a couple.  
  
“Well look at you two, Dapper Dan and Studly Dudley.” Ymir’s boisterous voice echoed off the high ceiling as she strolled into the foyer. She was drenched from head to toe, her sports bra—Bertolt thanked the stars she was actually wearing one—visible through her clinging white tank top and bits of grass pasted to her skin in random smatterings like green confetti. A trail of wet footprints and shed lawn matter marked the path she taken; not a neat freak, this one.  
  
“Your wife sure knows men’s suits,” said Reiner, grinning.  
  
Ymir snorted. “Well yeah. Her sartorial genius is just one of the many ways in which she is awesome. You fellas do look sharp alright. I just wanted to come in and see you off since I saw your ride pulling up. You’ve got the reservation ticket, right?”  
  
“Right here.” Reiner patted his breast pocket.  
  
And at the same moment, Historia flew in like a pixie, amazingly not slipping on the wet floor, and stopped on a dime at her wife’s side. Her appearance was in the same wild state as Ymir’s, straight from the fight without hosing down first. “Oh good, I didn’t miss you!” she said brightly. “I saw the limo had arrived and was afraid you boys might have left before I could tell you goodbye and to have a fabulous evening.”  
  
“Aw, thanks.” Excited as he already was, Reiner felt a booster shot of energy surge through him when Historia flashed that sparkly smile his way. There was something serious in the set of her eyebrows, though, which gave her a determined look. No, not determined—encouraging. Of course. This was all a part of the plan she’d devised just for him, just for love. Reiner would not let her efforts be in vain.  
  
“Wait, did you just say a _limo_ had arrived?” Bertolt asked in a calm but confused tone. “Ymir, you said we’d be going in a taxi.”  
  
She answered him with a dull look and a nonchalant shrug. “Eh, is it really that big a difference? Like they say, potato to-mah-to.”  
  
“Uh, I don’t think that’s how that goes,” said Bertolt, not critical but amused. Ymir and Historia’s gifts and surprises had already gone so far passed over-the-top that he had long since given up on trying to thwart them; clearly this special treatment was as much fun for the givers as it was for the receivers. And to be honest he was as thrilled as a child to have his first ever ride in a limousine. “I’ve never ridden in a limo before,” he admitted out loud. “That was pretty cool of you, Ymir. Thank you.”  
  
“It was no big deal,” she said, pushing a sly grin onto her face to cover up what to Bertolt had looked remarkably like a genuine smile of kindness. Then she wrapped one arm around Historia and with the other made a shooing gesture towards Reiner and Bertolt just as the doorbell chimed. “Alright, off with you two. Have fun, kids, and behave yourselves.”  
  
As he was walking out the door after Bertolt, Reiner heard Historia laugh and say, “Oh honey, it’s like our kids are going to the prom.”  
  
Outside, Bertolt and Reiner were met by a sprightly mustachioed gentleman in a chauffeur’s uniform who greeted them with a deferential tip of his cap and then promptly led them to the limousine. Its carapace was as black and shiny as wet ink, its dark windows limned in chrome, which the dwindling sunset dyed an incandescent red—not entirely unlike the Batmobile, Bertolt thought.  
  
The driver opened the door for them and Bertolt was first to go through, bringing with him absolutely no expectations for what the inside might be like. No high-tech bat-shaped crime fighting gadgets, but there was a built-in cooler stocked with glass bottles of exotic soda and a luxuriously serpentine leather bench. Everything was bathed in moody blue light and it wasn’t until Bertolt’s eyes adjusted that he noticed that the entire rear wall of the cabin was a very large flat-screen television (currently turned off, the remote in a holster on the wall). This was the stuff of cable reality shows featuring lifestyles of the rich and shameless and being ensconced in it made Bertolt feel like he had stepped into somebody much more interesting’s life. It was just for one night, but that was okay. He was Cinderella on his was to the ball. As soon as that dumb thought crossed his mind a hot wave of embarrassment washed through him.  
  
Reiner sat down close to Bertolt, but not too close—just near enough that he could bump his knee against Bertolt if he wanted to and pass it off as an accidental. It was the curse of ample seating: having to analyze his choice of spot for all possible interpretations. This felt good, though, natural. He wouldn’t have minded being closer, but he didn’t feel too far apart.  
  
“Not bad,” he said, stretching out his arms along the back ledge of the bench (one hand coming to rest enticingly close to Bertolt’s shoulder).  
  
“Like a twenty-first century fairytale,” said Bertolt. He hoped it wasn’t hint enough for Reiner to guess that he’d just been imagining himself as Cinderella.  
  
“Set in the Enchanted Kingdom of Los Angeles.” Reiner liked that analogy because fairytales—at least the Disney versions of them—always had happy endings. _And so Prince Reiner married Prince Bertolt and the two of them lived Happily Ever After._ Perhaps that was getting too far ahead of himself since he hadn’t even professed his love yet.  
  
Historia’s comment equating this night to the prom, on the other hand, sent Reiner’s thoughts in the other direction, back to the past. His senior prom had been two months away when they left their old lives behind, but as varsity football hero his friends had already been needling him about which of the popular girls he was going to take. Naturally adept at working the teenage social scene, Reiner had been coolly noncommittal in his replies, always making it sound like it was just too hard to choose between so many hotties, but the truth was that he hadn’t planned on going at all. Even back then there had only been one person he would’ve wanted for his prom date, and asking that person was inconceivable at the time. With the exception of Annie, nobody at Angel Altonen High School had known that Reiner was gay. Reiner hadn’t even been able to say it out lout until Marcel Berwick Vogel came along.  
  
This trail of thoughts led Reiner to wondering how things may have gone differently if the three of them hadn’t run away: Would he have come out by now? Would he have taken the scholarship to William and Mary? Would Bertolt’s drinking have gotten so bad? Would it have stayed hidden? Would Annie have been so promiscuous? Would she have become so withdrawn?  
  
“You okay?” Bertolt asked, his gentle voice pulling Reiner’s mind back into the present.  
  
“Yeah,” said Reiner. Then he shook his head, chuckling lightly. “Just having a Talking Heads moment there. _How did I get here? My god, what have I done?_ ”  
  
Bertolt grinned, leaned back in his seat and stretched his long legs in front of him—something he’d never been able to do inside a vehicle before—and said, “Those Throwback Thursdays will haunt us forever, I fear.”  
  
“You may be right, Bertl.” Reiner enjoyed thinking about those old songs—and they were old even back then, when they were new to him—but he was done dwelling on the past and what-ifs. Anchored to each new moment by the beautiful man at his side, he was ready to live this second chance prom night as it unfolded. He shifted his legs and bumped one knee against Bertolt’s. “Let’s make tonight really count.”  
  
“Yes,” said Bertolt, nodding. He wasn’t really sure what Reiner meant by those esoteric words (count how? towards what?) but he would find his own meaning.  
  
Once the limo was outside of the residential area, the scenery became instantly more interesting: postcard perfect palm trees stretching up to brush the dark ceiling of the sky, avant-garde buildings that looked like set pieces from next year’s science fiction blockbuster, signs for bars and donut shops and laundromats, profound and radiant in neon piping. There was so much to see that Bertolt and Reiner both turned around in their seats and spent the entire ride watching out the windows as L.A. scrolled past in technicolor.  
  
Bertolt’s level of anticipation for Sirvé Cor—which started out in the realm of strong curiosity—grew steadily higher throughout the journey, ratcheted up by all of the fantastic sights they passed. By the time they reached their destination, he’d convinced himself that the location for the most coveted of meals must be the brightest jewel in the crown, so he was more than a little confused when the driver opened the door to the limo and he stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of an unprepossessing brick building in the middle of an utterly mundane city block.  
  
“So do we walk from here to get to the restaurant?” he asked the driver.  
  
The driver replied with cheery courtesy. “Why sir, it is right in front of you, see?”  
  
Bertolt returned his eyes to the building in front of him. Three stories high with a facade of red bricks, it was smaller and looked older than the steel and concrete structures flanking it left and right, and the overall effect was a sort of wedged-in appearance. The restaurant’s full name was not displayed in any prominent place on its edifice so the only means of identification was a sigil-shaped sign bearing a logo of a black wing crossed over a white wing, which was positioned over the door and completely useless to somebody unfamiliar with the establishment.  
  
“Ah, right. Of course. Thank you,” Bertolt said, trying and failing to not sound clueless.  
  
“Yeah, and thanks for getting us here in style,” said Reiner. He beamed and gave the driver a thumbs up.  
  
“Think nothing of it,” said the driver. “It was my pleasure to chauffeur you to your dinner date, Messrs. Braun and Hoover. I have heard such fantastic things about the genius of Chef Hange. This is sure to be an experience you will remember for years to come. When you enter, just show your reservation slip to the maître d. Ah yes, and at the end of the evening, I shall pick you up right in this same spot.”  
  
Dazzled by the driver’s unabashed use of the word “date,” Bertolt forgot to ask if there was a specific time they needed to be outside or if they should contact the driver and how, and when he regained his wits a second later, the little man was back in position inside the limo, face forward and white gloves on the wheel. Too late now, he’d just have to trust that Ymir had it covered (a reasonable bet since she seemed to have every aspect of this night choreographed).  
  
After the car had slipped back into the stream of traffic and the purr of its engine had been swallowed up by other sounds, for a full minute Bertolt and Reiner just stood there on the sidewalk, blinking at the building wherein they would soon eat the most spectacular meal of their lives. Or, if not that, then certainly the most hyped meal of their lives.  
  
“I thought it would look fancier, too,” said Reiner. He was trying to be cool and not think about the fact that even the limo driver acknowledged that this was a date. “Can’t judge a book by its cover, though, right? Come on, let’s go inside.”  
  
He opened the door—just an ordinary door, made of wood and painted black, without any windows, embellishments, or identifiers—and held it for Bertolt (like a good prom date) before entering. Now he and Bertolt stood in a reception room barely bigger than one of their closets back at the mansion. A doorway offered a tantalizing glimpse of milky light and open space beyond, but the view was almost entirely blocked by a man even taller than Bertl, and brawnier than Reiner.  
  
“Uh,” said Bertolt, but the sound was mouse small and the man didn’t react.  
  
“Excuse me,” Reiner said, adopting the self-assured voice he used with adults he’d just met. “Are you the maître d?”  
  
The man blinked down at them, his heavy-lidded eyes shaded by a shaggy mop of mustard blond hair. His prominent nose twitched as if he were scenting the air, but he offered no response.  
  
Maybe that had been a stupid question; there was nobody else present in this little antechamber so who else could he be? In his dark jeans and snug green shirt, though, he wasn’t exactly attired for the task of welcoming guests to an exclusive, high-class restaurant. He looked more like a bouncer than a maître d, and after another few seconds passed with just sniffing and no words, Reiner’s stomach clenched in on itself.  
  
“We have a reservation?” Reiner said. It shouldn’t have been a question, but that was the way it came out as he pulled the golden envelope from his pocket and handed it to the man.  
  
The man ran the edge of the envelope under his nose, the way one might sample the bouquet of a fine Cuban cigar, then he tore it open, plucked out the card from inside, and proceeded to smell the card. Whether or not he actually read the card was unclear, but upon completing his olfactory assessment of it, he smirked and nodded his scruffy head and said, “Follow me.”  
  
Reiner had used that cliche about judging a book by its cover simply because it felt like the right line for the situation, but upon stepping through the doorway into the heart of Sirvé Cor he discovered how apt it had in fact been. The interior of the restaurant was expansive—not merely spacious, but designed in such a way as to make the dimensions on the inside appear physically incompatible with the dimensions on the outside. Open and airy, it was not a crowded space; there were fewer than a dozen tables, arranged with wide swathes of floorspace around each. To Reiner’s immense relief, the people seated at these tables were all dressed as poshly as he and Bertolt were, in suits and cocktail dresses.  
  
But his eyes didn’t linger on the other guests for long, drawn instead to the high stone walls surrounding them. At least he thought the walls were stone; it was hard to tell for sure since they were extensively papered with wheat paste posters: street art and band fliers and retro advertisements. And where the walls ended, the ceiling continued to climb, creamy white plaster arching upward into a great dome, at the center of which was an enormous rose window. The place was part artsy hipster den, part cathedral and the combination was inexplicably harmonious.  
  
“Amazing,” Bertolt muttered, craning his neck to take it all in while still keeping pace behind the maître d.  
  
“You said it,” Reiner replied in an awed whisper.  
  
They were led to a wood and iron staircase tucked against one wall and followed the maître d up to the top, to a small mezzanine which jutted inconspicuously above the main floor. The modest space was occupied by a single square table, made entirely out of clear glass, with two chairs on opposite sides.  
  
“Have a seat and Chef Hange will be right with you,” said the maître d.  
  
But before Bertolt and Reiner could carry out the instruction, a door set in the far corner swung open and out strode an individual of indistinct age and ambiguous gender, sporting a white lab coat and a wide grin.  
  
“Ah, thank you Mike,” the newcomer declared in a husky, androgynous voice. “I can take it from here.”  
  
The man named Mike acknowledged Hange with a respectful nod then gave the same courtesy to Bertolt and Reiner and headed back down the stairs without speaking another word.  
  
“Welcome, welcome!” said Chef Hange. “My guests of honor! Yes, please sit down!”  
  
Like the restaurant itself, Hange Zoë was not as Bertolt had imagined, though he hadn’t actually had a specific vision in mind of what either would be like; just different. Chef Hange had a sturdy, boyish figure and coffee brown hair pulled back into a spraying ponytail at the crown of the skull. A pair of goggles rested over Hange’s forehead, which, along with the lab coat and manically sparkling eyes, gave the impression of a mad scientist. While Bertolt’s instincts told him he was looking at a women, he was not going to jump to any conclusions without more compelling evidence.  
  
Ready for anything, he sat down in one chair and Reiner sat down in the other.  
  
“Salutations! I am Hange Zoë, molecular gastronomist extraordinaire and executive chef here at Sirvé Cor. Have you been here before?” Both boys shook their heads. “Ah, first-timers! I love it! Well, I hope you enjoy everything tonight, the food and the ambiance. By the way, you probably already noticed this, but we’re built in a deconsecrated church. Pretty cool, huh? Anyways, everything you eat tonight is made just for you by myself and my sous chef, Moblit. All local ingredients except for what can’t be found in this neck of the woods. Now, since I’m sure you two are as excited as I am, I’ll head back to my laboratory to finish the prep. Might take a few minutes, but it will be well worth the wait, I promise. So in the meantime just sit back and relax, okay?”  
  
This introductory speech was delivered in such a rapid-fire volley it was a wonder Chef Hange had time to breath between sentences. There was no room for the guests of honor to ask questions, or even for them to answer the questions posed to them with more than nods, and as soon as the speech was finished, Hange shuffled back through the swinging door.  
  
There was no way of predicting how long it would last, but for the time being, Bertolt and Reiner were alone together.  
  
“What do you think of the place so far?” Reiner asked.  
  
“I like it,” said Bertolt. “It’s a little strange, but I like it.”  
  
“And what do you think of the Chef?”  
  
Bertolt laughed. “Pretty much the exact same thing.”  
  
They had an excellent view of the entire restaurant from their table and their own private patch of poster covered wall, the most central piece of artwork pasted upon it being a block of chunky black text on a white background.

  
AND ONE DAY WE WILL SAY THAT ALL THE CRAP THAT LED US HERE WAS WORTH THE MOMENT WHEN EVERYTHING MADE SENSE — Morley

  
At the bottom was a black line drawing of the artist, presumably this Morley guy, posed as if he’d just finished painting the words. Bertolt stared at the poster for a minute, letting the message fill his head, until Reiner’s voice snapped him back to attention.  
  
“I think that one is pretty cool. It speaks to me.”  
  
Bertolt turned back and met his gaze. “Yeah?”  
  
Heat seeped into Reiner’s cheeks and neck. Knowing absolutely nothing about art, he probably should’ve kept his mouth shut. But now that he’d brought it up, he might as well explain himself, and even if Bertolt did think he was a dimwit for it, that sweet, smart man would never say so—bless his heart.  
  
“Yeah. I mean, it’s like all the stuff that’s happened to us since leaving home. It hasn’t been easy. Some of the experiences have been downright brutal—like Annie’s accident.” Bertolt’s eyes darkened with unease so Reiner hastily pushed onward to the point he was trying to make. “But if all of those things hadn’t happened exactly as they did, I might not be here right now, at _this_ table, in _this_ restaurant.” He paused for just a fraction of a second and added, “With you.”  
  
“That’s true,” said Bertolt. “And then we wouldn’t get to experience the myriad joys of molecular gastronomy.” He responded breezily, but his heart was galloping, his belly hot. Reiner had given him a perfect opening to talk about his feelings, not just his feelings for Reiner, but his feeling regarding everything they’d been through together, and even Annie’s depression. So why couldn’t his idiot tongue just spit out the right words?  
  
Reiner sensed nervousness stitched into Bertolt’s comment but he chuckled at it anyways, if for no other reason than to put Bertolt’s mind more at ease. He was feeling nervous himself, longing to bear his soul but having no idea where to start. It was too early to make his love confession—that was definitely a post-dinner conversation—but he should at least be building up to it. There were a few other things he’d been keeping from Bertolt.  
  
“Hey Bertl?” he said, even though he already had Bertolt’s full attention. “Since that poster got me thinking about all the crazy shit that’s happened in the past few years, I just want—” A knot in his throat forced him to stop and swallow before continuing. “—I want to tell you some of the things I’ve kept secret.”  
  
“Yes?” Bertolt asked, eyes fixed on Reiner’s face. He didn’t know what to expect. Was Reiner going to tell him about Marcel? Or did he have other secrets that were actually secret from Bertolt?  
  
“Well, one thing I never told you about was how hung up I used to be about finding out who my biological father was. It was back when we were living in Philadelphia that my obsession really peaked. Maybe it was because I was still struggling to accept the fact that I’m gay and I thought if I found this guy he would—I don’t know—tell me it would be okay. Or something. In any case, I was doing all this research about my Mom’s old boyfriends, desperate for any clue that might indicate his identity. But I kept it secret from you and Annie. I guess I didn’t want you to think I had Dad Issues, you know?”  
  
During the course of this confession, Bertolt had observed subtle changes in Reiner’s body language: sitting up just a little straighter in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. These were subconscious protective tactics Bertolt understood well. It would be pointless—and potentially hurtful—to tell Reiner that he and Annie would have been supportive if they had known, so instead he asked softly, “Did you find anything?”  
  
Reiner sighed and smiled and shook his head. “Just a bunch of dead ends. But that’s okay. I even decided it was for the best. There must have been a reason why Mom never told me about this guy. And it’s not like he ever did anything fatherly for me, I got all that from Dad. August Leonhart, I mean. Really I was just a teenager who’d lost his Dad at a tough time and was looking for a substitute. But I got through it and probably became a little stronger for it.”  
  
“Thank you,” said Bertolt, the only words that came to him at first. “I know, that’s probably not the right response. I’m just really happy that you’re telling me this. Whatever is important to you, Reiner, whatever causes you pain or joy, I care about it. Okay?”  
  
A mild euphoria spread through Reiner’s body when he shared that small truth, like a valve had opened, releasing painfully pent-up pressure that he’d been living with for years but wasn’t aware of until its relief. And look at the response it had gotten him: Bertolt looking at him with such warmth; Bertolt telling him that he cared. Emboldened, Reiner decided to go for another.  
  
“There’s something else I need to tell you, Bertl. Something I should have told you a long time ago.” He leaned in over the table and Bertolt mirrored the action. Their faces were so close that Reiner could count the droplets of sweat on Bertolt's brow (five).  
  
“Yes?” Bertolt asked, his breath ghosting against Reiner’s skin.  
  
Reiner spoke measuredly. “When we lived in Philadelphia, I had a boyfriend. His name was Marcel Berwick Vogel. We’d been seeing each other for a couple of weeks when he died of a drug overdose at a club. I was there when it happened and I witnessed it. That was the night I came home crying.”  
  
This was not news to Bertolt, merely confirmation of what he and Annie had already surmised, but it struck him the same way a revelation would because it was the first time he’d heard it from Reiner lips. His lower eyelids twitched, the rims prickling. “Reiner,” he said softly. “That’s—Are you okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Reiner said. “I’m okay now. I still feel sad when I think about his family and his friends, but I worked through my own grief a long time ago. We weren’t together for very long. Not long enough to fall in love. I know I should have told you about this sooner, Bertolt, but I didn’t and I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s alright,” said Bertolt, smiling despite the seriousness of the subject matter, because he was so touched by Reiner’s openness. “I am happy that you are telling me now, that you trust me with something so personal. And it’s not like I’ve always been forthcoming with you. Remember, I held back a lot of things about my family and my childhood until they were forced out dramatically by circumstance.”  
  
Reiner reached one hand across the table, and at the same time Bertolt instinctively reached from his side, their grasping fingers meeting in the middle and lacing together.  
  
“For what it’s worth,” said Bertolt. “I think Dad Issues are universal. As common as Mom Issues even. You know I’ve got both.”  
  
“It’s worth more than you think,” Reiner said and gave Bertolt’s hand a good strong squeeze. “I don’t want to have any more secrets from you, Bertl.” It was a solemn vow.  
  
“Me neither,” Bertolt said, and as he did a knife of guilt twisted in his stomach, poisoning the sweetness of the moment. His conscience hissed at him in a snake’s voice: _What about Annie? You had sex with her! You had sex with his little sister! And you still love her! You love her as much as you love him! You selfish, greedy liar! Why don’t you share that secret?_  
  
Some sign of distress must have shown through on his face because Reiner pulled back, furrowed his brow, and asked, “You okay?”  
  
“I’m fine,” said Bertolt. “Just a sudden pang of worry.”  
  
“About Annie, by any chance?” It was an impetuous question, tinged with passive-aggression, and Reiner regretted it as soon as it was out of his mouth.  
  
“Well yeah.” Bertolt hadn’t expected Reiner to make that guess, but, after a split-second of panic, he realized that Reiner must have his own worries about his little sister. “You’re worried about her, too, aren’t you? About how isolated she’s become.”  
  
“Yes,” Reiner answered, because it was true; no twinges of jealousy could undo the serious concern he felt for his little sister. It wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss now, though, especially since it would be hard for him to offer up analysis on Annie’s emotional state without mentioning the abortion she’d almost had to get and only avoided because she was hit by a truck. That one was not his secret to tell.  
  
Fortunately, the reappearance of Chef Hange saved him from having to engage in a potentially awkward conversation about Annie.  
  
“The first course has arrived!” Hange announced, bursting from the swinging door. The Chef was accompanied by a bland, twitchy man Reiner could only assume was Moblit and each of them was pushing a wheeled cart loaded with plates and bowls and bottles and other less familiar items.  
  
“Alright, let’s do it,” Bertolt said, excitedly. He would have liked a little more time alone with Reiner—and they’d been right on the verge of discussing what was going on with Annie—but there would be other chances for them to talk, later. After all, they had come to this restaurant to eat.  
  
Reiner rubbed his palms together, the one still hot and clammy from holding Bertolt’s sweaty hand, and said, “I’m game.”  
  
For the first course, Bertolt and Reiner were each presented with a pure white plate, at the center of which quivered a two-inch cube of jewel green—something—garnished with delicate cherry red flakes of—something else.  
  
“It’s the essence of a garden salad!” Chef Hange declared, and when Bertolt spooned it into his mouth he caught ever layer of flavor—spinach, lettuce, radish, tomato, even the balsamic vinaigrette and croutons—as the morsel melted on his tongue.  
  
“That’s incredible,” he said.  
  
“Amazing,” said Reiner, who had waited on Bertolt’s reaction before trying it himself.  
  
From there the menu only got stranger. There were shot glasses of jellied egg topped with bacon-flavored foam; spoonfuls of what looked like electric pink caviar but tasted like watermelon and basil when the tiny spheres burst in the mouth; soup flash-frozen before their eyes with liquid nitrogen and then smashed to splinters with a hammer; transparent raviolis with saffron infused lamb filling; and other gobbets of food in Dr. Seuss shapes and Kandinsky colors with flavors so complex they resisted the application of adjectives.  
  
The courses were served one after the other, either taken directly off the carts, pre-plated, or prepared at the table from ingredients and tools Hange and Moblit had brought out with them. No in-between breaks longer than it took to down a palette cleansing gulp of herbed mineral water and no more moments where Bertolt and Reiner were alone.  
  
But Reiner was having way too much fun to feel thwarted, and the smile that illuminated Bertolt’s face told him the joy was mutual. Molecular gastronomy, it turned out, was the eccentric yet beautiful offspring of cuisine and science, and he got to experience it with the person he loved. What could be more wonderful than that? And besides, the night was still young. He would say “I love you” before the sun came up again.

* * *

  
  
Annie stayed out on the balcony until the last bloody sliver of sunlight was consumed by the horizon, and the sky was left a dark, starless blue. Then, having watched the sunset through to its conclusion, she went back into her bedroom and exchanged her red dress for shorts and a t-shirt.  
  
It was still too early for sleep and she didn’t know what to do with the rest of the evening. Installation of the waterfall was just about finished, so she could swim some laps across the pool. The elliptical trainer in the basement was another option. Exercise had always been her preferred form of distraction, but tonight she doubted even the most vigorous workout would relieve her of her ceaseless thoughts about how the boys’ date was going.  
  
Was the setting romantic? What were they talking about? Had Reiner made his move yet?  
  
She flopped backwards onto the bed and let out a small groan of frustration. What was wrong with her, obsessing over matters that were out of her hands? Matters involving a stupid boy, no less. This was some junior high level bullshit.  
  
Despite how refreshing the air-conditioning felt, being inside was not helping her to relax. The walls all around only made the buzzing in her brain louder, the mental images more vivid: Reiner and Bertolt kissing. Her brother and the man she loved holding each other like lovers some place far, far away from where she was. And for some reason that vision made her think about Dad, and then about the baby she’d lost, as if their deaths had presaged this.  
  
 _See? This is what happens when you get attached to people. When they leave you it cuts like a knife and leaves a wound that will never heal. You tried so hard not to need them, but no matter how much you closed yourself off, you couldn’t sever those bonds. And now you have to hurt._  
  
Even though it was a product of her own overactive imagination, the voice inside Annie’s head was so intrusive that she growled, “Shut up!” through her teeth as she jerked herself up from the bed. She needed to rein in her toxic thoughts. Reiner and Bertolt were on a date, for fuck’s sake, not dying. For all she knew, Bertolt would respond to Reiner’s confession with, “Sorry but I’m not gay.” But here she was thinking like the two of them had already married and moved away and forgotten all about her.  
  
What needed was to get out of the house. Okay, swimming. Maybe it wouldn’t provide full respite from her stewing, but it was the best option available since it engaged the whole body and required an appreciable amount of focus.  
  
With a mini surge of relief that came simply from the anticipation of greater relief, Annie stepped over to the dresser to find her swimsuit. She searched through every drawer, churning the meager contents thoroughly before accepting the conclusion that her black one-piece suit was someplace else, either in with the wash or hung up to dry.  
  
 _Crap_ , she thought, her eyes scanning across the floor to the tipped over shopping bag with the straps of a red bikini spilling out. Sighing, she went to retrieve it. Not the best suit for actual swimming, but it would have to do. Annie put it on. It fit her body perfectly, which wasn’t at all surprising given Historia’s demonstrated talent for selecting clothing for others based on her own visual survey. What was surprising was how little of her belly scar the bikini exposed. Less than two centimeters of the silver-white slash escaped the sanctuary of her bikini bottom—still far more than she would like to have out on display, but it was night time and there would be nobody around to see.  
  
Oh, except for Ymir and Historia.  
  
 _Shit_ , she thought, upgrading her mental obscenity from minutes ago. Of course the happy couple would be out enjoying the pool tonight; the new waterfall was Historia’s anniversary present to Ymir. Annie felt like an idiot for having changed into a swimsuit before considering this. Now she would have to think of something else to do, not because she didn’t want those two to see her, but because she was in no mood to see them. As long as she was alone she could contain her irritation at the meddlesome sweethearts, but if she had to look at their satisfied faces, she was afraid she might seethe so hard she’d let slip what she really thought about their transparent matchmaking scheme. They were the real cause of her current misery.  
  
Hmm, but maybe they weren’t down at the pool. This was their wedding anniversary, after all, so maybe they were doing something a bit more—well, the particulars of lesbian sex were not in Annie’s area of expertise or interest, but whatever was the standard for commemorating two years of marriage, perhaps they were doing it. At least there was a quick and easy way to know if the pool was free; she’d just step out onto the balcony and look.  
  
The wooden planks, still infused with the hoarded heat of the day, were warm against her bare soles as she placed one foot and then the other on the balcony floor.  
  
“Hey there.”  
  
Ymir’s disembodied voice made Annie’s feet stick in place, her arms whipping around to cover her naked stomach. “What to you want?” she asked stiffly as her eyes darted about the vicinity in search of the woman she was addressing.  
  
“No need to cover yourself, Leonhart.” Ymir emerged from a pocket of shadow clad in a black tank-top swimsuit, which shined wetly in the glow from the outdoor lamps. On her face was the standard amused half-smirk. “Nothing wrong with your body and the suit looks great. Unless you’re afraid I’ll enjoy the view too much, in which case don’t flatter yourself.”  
  
Annie let out a sharp little puff of breath. “Again, Ymir, what do you want?”  
  
“I don’t want anything,” said Ymir innocently (holding up both hands to illustrate her innocence). “I was just relaxing out here after an evening of romantic waterfall frolic, saw you step out of your room and wanted to say hey. You’re the one who jumped right in with the interrogation.”  
  
Straightening up her posture into something a bit less defensive, Annie replied curtly. “I’m sorry, Ymir. You startled me. I am in a tense mood and I was just coming out here to see if you and Historia were done playing in the pool so I could swim a few laps. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out here.” All of it came out more begrudging than she intended, but her only desire was to extricate herself as quickly as possible so friendliness was not a priority.  
  
Ymir flashed a look of incredulity. “What’ve you got to be tense about? Didn’t you have a good time at our party? Free food, free cake. Sounds like an awesome day to me, a real tension tamer.”  
  
Annie was not going to do this. She was not going to play along with Ymir’s pathetic farce. “Okay, could you just drop the act already?” she said harshly.  
  
“What do you mean? What act?” Ymir was intentionally stoking the blaze she’d started.  
  
And it worked, sending the flames of Annie’s anger higher, up from her stomach and into her chest. “Stop pretending like you’ve done nothing wrong,” she growled. “Stop pretending like your whole whole damn party wasn’t just a ploy to foist an outrageously lavish date on Bertolt and my brother and try to dragoon them into a relationship for your own amusement!” Her voice grew louder and more vitriolic over the span of the accusation and she finished with an igneous glare.  
  
Ymir’s face went smooth and blank, like a rumpled sheet pulled taut over a bed. “I never said that wasn’t the case. I just thought it was so obvious it didn’t bear talking about.”  
  
Not prepared for a flat-out admission, Annie sputtered getting out the words, “B-but why?”  
  
Ymir pressed a splayed hand over her heart in a theatrical gesture of sentimentality and let out a disingenuous sigh. “To help out a guy in love. What can I say? The wife and I are just romantics at heart. It’s painfully obvious that Reiner is besotted with Bertl—case in point: his cringeworthy karaoke schtick—but when it became clear to us that he wasn’t going to make a move of his own volition, Tori and I took matters into our own hands.” She let out a wry little laugh. “I guess it wasn’t wholly altruistic, though, because honestly his pining was getting to the point of unbearable—to say nothing of his love ballads. But as long as everyone is happy in the end, who cares about motives?”  
  
“Well what about—” Annie caught herself before blurting out me and amended it to, “Bertolt?”  
  
But Ymir just threw back the very same question with infuriating insouciance. “What about Bertolt?”  
  
“What about his happiness? Did you take that into consideration before implementing your plan?” It felt wrong to even ask this, the implication being that Annie didn’t think Bertolt could be happy with her brother. She knew that he could.  
  
“Of course we took his happiness into consideration. We happen to think those two would make a lovely couple. We could be wrong, but it’s not like we forced them to get married or kiss or even hold hands. It’s just an unforgettable night out. And if something more amorous should happen between them it’s because they both wanted it that way. They’re big boys, Annie, and you don’t need to worry so much about them.”  
  
Annie’s hands curled to fists at her sides, the muscles of her jaw trembled and her eyelids stung. “You had no right to intervene,” she hissed and turned on her heel to leave before her intellect lost its last slippery one-fingered hold on her body’s steering wheel.  
  
“I really don’t understand what you’re so upset about,” Ymir said to her back. “Shouldn’t you be happy for your brother and your friend? I mean, it’s not like you’re in love with Bertolt or anything.”  
  
Annie had already set one foot inside her bedroom—so close to gone—when the comment thwacked her like a well aimed arrow and emotion seized the wheel. She spun, spitting impetuous words: “I am! That’s why I’m upset! Because I am in love with Bertolt! Yes, that’s right, I am in love with the same guy as my brother and he just happens to be our mutual best friend! There! I said it! Is that what you wanted to hear?” Then she stood there with her feet spaced wide, chest heaving with ragged, adrenaline-laced breaths, and waited for a snappy rejoinder.  
  
“Fucking finally.” This was not said by Ymir, but by Historia as she materialized from out of the same shadow her wife had earlier. Like Ymir, she was wearing her wet swimsuit—a plunging pink one-piece—and her facial expression was oddly pleased.  
  
“Wait what?” Annie blinked dazedly at Historia, who had probably been present all along but whose sudden reveal and uncharacteristic use of the f-word were temporarily disorienting.  
  
“Yes. That is _exactly_ what I wanted to hear,” said Ymir, putting an arm around Historia while aiming her widening grin at Annie. “You know, I was actually starting to worry I wouldn’t be able to get you to admit it. Ah, but I should know better than to doubt myself at this point.”  
  
Annie pursed her lips and knit her brow. “What are you talking about? Are you saying you knew that I love Bertolt?”  
  
“Yep,” said Historia, bobbing her happy head. “For quite a while actually.”  
  
“How?” It was a damn good question since Annie herself hadn’t known until very recently.  
  
Ymir’s eyebrows went up as her eyelids went down. “Seriously? With the way you close your eyes and fall into a dreamy trance whenever he sings? He’s good, but he’s not _that_ good. Face it, Leonhart, your pokerface isn’t as impenetrable as you think it is. You might not be as easy to read as your boys, _Hop on Pop_ and _Go, Dog. Go!_ but I had you solved within a week after meeting you. Wasn’t sure if you’d solved yourself yet at the time. Denial is a powerful drug.”  
  
A current of irritation crackled down Annie’s spine and quickly changed to stinging hurt when she realized what Ymir’s words meant: they had known that she loved Bertolt, too, and they still pushed him to be with Reiner. And now they were smugly lording it over her. “Why didn’t you—?” Her voice broke before she could finish the question.  
  
“Why didn’t we set you up to win a dream date with the Sweaty Prince?” Ymir supplied. “I suppose you must think it’s due to some homosexual in-group bias that compels us to favor your gay brother over you, but I can assure you it’s not. The real reason is far more mundane. It’s because it wouldn’t have worked. You aren’t unreadable, but you are ridiculously stubborn.”  
  
“And aloof,” Historia piped in.  
  
“That about sums you up, Annie—stubborn and aloof,” said Ymir. “If we’d sent you to Sirvé Cor with Longshanks, I can guarantee you wouldn’t have opened up about your feelings. You would’ve sat across from him, hunched and sullen through all twelve courses, and zero progress would’ve been made towards anything. You, my friend, are the macadamia of your group, the toughest nut to crack. In fact, it wasn't until this past Karaoke Night that I finally found just the right rock to smash you open with—jealousy.”  
  
“Jealousy?”  
  
“That’s right, jealousy. I caught a whiff of it early on—like, whenever Reiner and Bertl were acting all chummy on their own, you were always lurking nearby, stealing furtive glances you thought nobody would notice. And you shoot me pissy looks anytime I show the least bit of interest in Longshanks even though you know I’m hella fucking gay. But when I asked him to be our sperm donor and you nearly tore your magazine in half—I mean, you actually had to stand up and leave the room, fer crissakes!—that’s when I realized we could use jealousy to break you.”  
  
“Break me?” Annie’s thin breath pushed the words out through drawn lips. “Why? You’ve spouted all of this exposition and I still don’t understand what the point of your plan was. Did you thrust Reiner and Bertolt together just to make me jealous and humiliate me? Or do you genuinely want them to be a couple and humiliating me is an added bonus for you? The former is definitely more reprehensible, but either way I feel like shit.”  
  
“That wasn’t our intention,” said Historia apologetically. “Honest. The point of our plan was to help you three get over your emotional constipation and actually deal with your weird sibling love triangle instead of just sulking and brooding about it like teenagers.” The words were tart even though Historia used her usual honeyed voice to speak them.  
  
“I wasn’t lying before,” said Ymir. “Your brother’s glaringly undeclared love has indeed become insufferable. But so has yours. And Bertl’s. Tori and I love you three—we really do—but this love triangle shit has gone on long enough. It’s a bloated romantic subplot that has hijacked a perfectly serviceable runaway story and turned it into a terribly written YA novel. Take it from a professional writer, there’s a reason those stories don’t sell to the over-eighteen crowd. Discerning adults don’t have the patience to put up with page after page of self-absorbed teens and their tedious melodrama. And that’s the position you’ve put us in—for the last two months we’ve been stuck reading your _Twilight Saga_.”  
  
The explanation hit Annie like a glass of cold water thrown in her face. Had they really been that obnoxious? It hadn’t fully answered her original question however. “So what kind of outcome were you hoping for exactly? Do you want Bertolt to go with me or with Reiner?”  
  
“How the fuck should I know?” said Ymir, exasperated. “That’s for you three to sort out on your own. We just wanted you all to admit that you’re in love with each other and do something about it already so that everyone can move on. And okay, I’ll admit, the _Twilight_ comparison went too far and for that I am sorry. But everything else I said stands.”  
  
Historia smiled beatifically, her angelic aura heightened by the way her hair was drying in satiny yellow spirals about her shoulders. “Don’t let her attempts to act cool fool you, Annie. It really isn’t about alleviating our frustration—well, maybe just a tiny bit—but mostly it’s about helping out our friends. I know it’s only been two months that Ymir and I have known the three of you, but in that time we’ve come to care about you a whole lot and we truly want you to be happy. So please, for your own sakes, unfuck yourselves.”  
  
Annie had to give Historia due credit for knowing exactly when to drop those sugar pink f-bombs for maximum dissonance, which was strangely effective for getting her points across. In the clarity immediately following the blast, Annie grasped a critical detail she had missed before. “Ymir,” she said with half-suppressed urgency. “You said that all three of us were demonstrably in love and that you could read us all like books.”  
  
“Yeah. So?” Ymir looked and sounded bored, which rekindled Annie’s ire at her.  
  
“So who is Bertolt in love with?” Annie asked impatiently. “That’s the deciding factor in all of this, isn’t it? Reiner and I are both in love with him, so it’s just a matter of whose feelings he returns. So who is it? You know, don’t you?”  
  
Ymir stabbed the air with her chin. “What makes you think we’d share that information with you? If you want to know how Longshanks feels, you’ll have to find out for yourself. And not to discredit your customary methods of discovery—glaring from afar and jumping to conclusions do have their uses—but I’m going to offer you a helpful hint and suggest you try talking to him for this one.”  
  
With eyes closed and head bowed, Annie took in a deep breath to collect herself then let it out in a slow stream and looked up again. There was no way she could beat Ymir at sass so she wouldn’t attempt to win any information that way. Desperation was starting to creep into her, a pernicious weed entangling her insides. “It’s a little hard to talk to him when he’s on a date with my brother,” she said quietly.  
  
“Talk when they get home,” Ymir replied.  
  
“But what if something has already happened between them?” As Annie asked the question, she already knew the answer: if something happened between Reiner and Bertolt tonight it would merely prove her strongly held theory that Bertolt, the man she never knew she always wanted, was in love with her big brother.  
  
“If that’s the case,” said Ymir, “I’m sure Bertl will inform you when you tell him how you feel about him.”  
  
“You mean when he rejects me. So you would send me to my heartbreak knowing full well that you could prevent it right now by just telling me who, if anyone, Bertolt loves? Come on, even you aren’t that evil, Ymir.”  
  
“Anybody who isn’t willing to risk heartbreak for the chance to be with the one they love doesn’t deserve that love,” said Historia in a crisp, matter-of-fact tone.  
  
Ymir took a moment to squeeze Historia more tightly to her side, gazing down at her wife of two years with unconcealed adoration, and then returned her eyes to Annie. “For all you know, we’ve sent your brother to his heartbreak. Right now he is the one out on an spectacular date with the man of your mutual dreams, and I can see how you might assume this gives him the clear advantage—X always wins in tic-tac-toe, after all—but you’ve got to keep in mind that your brother has the same insecurities you do. I didn’t disclose Bertl’s feelings to Reiner either, you know. He might confess or he might not. Just remember, a date is not a contract. A love confession is not a contract. Even a kiss is not a contract—hmm, but it is very nice.” She paused her monologue so she could lean down and kiss Historia.  
  
The kiss lasted just long enough for Annie to feel the first tingle of awkwardness and she was wondering if she ought to look away when the couple finally broke apart and Historia turned to her, flushed and breathless, and said, “If you love Bertolt, tell him. Don’t think about your brother. Don’t think about whether or not Bertolt returns your feelings. Just spill your heart out to him. You’ve already admitted it to yourself and to us, but the only way you’ll ever have any chance to be with Bertolt romantically is if you admit it to him.”  
  
“Or,” said Ymir, “if you really can’t bring yourself to tell Bertl that you love him—because you’re scared of rejection or think he loves Reiner more or whatever other stupid reason—then you have to let him go and move on with your life. Don’t be like whatserface from _Twilight_.” Then, without pausing long enough for Annie to get a single word in, Ymir shifted to a brisk, businesslike tone and said, “Well, I guess that about does it for our role in all of this. You acted your part in our plan beautifully but from here on out we are stepping back and leaving the rest to you and those silly boys. Now, if you don’t mind, that making out has put me in a mood. I think it’s time we headed back to our bedroom.”  
  
As Ymir and Historia nuzzled each other, exchanging lubricious little grins, Annie tried to think of anything else to say but came up with nothing.  
  
“Enjoy your swim,” said Historia. “Since you are in your suit, I assume that’s where you’re headed. The waterfall is simply gorgeous.”  
  
“Thanks,” said Annie vaguely. Her brain was already swimming. “Uh, good night then. Happy Anniversary.”  
  
“Thank you,” Historia chirped. “And good night to you, too.”  
  
“Night,” said Ymir, flicking a farewell wave as she turned to walk away with her bride in tow.  
  
Annie thought of something. “Wait!”  
  
Ymir looked back over her shoulder. “Yeah?”  
  
It was a somewhat embarrassing question for Annie to ask. “You weren’t really serious when you asked Bertolt to be your donor, were you? That was just a part of your plan, too, right?”  
  
At this, Ymir threw back her head and let out a single bark of laughter. “Oh no, that was totally serious. We really were interested in his sperm.” Twin patches of heat flared up on Annie’s cheeks. Ymir cast her an enigmatic smile and continued. “Too bad he declined. Said if he ever has kids, he wants to have them with somebody he loves. A pity for us. But this Marco guy is pretty cool, and a real cutie, too, if the photo he sent with his last email is the real deal. Anyways, you don’t have to worry about us having Longshanks’ baby. That privilege is all—well, I guess it depends on how the rest of the night goes, doesn’t it?”  
  
Annie stayed out on the balcony for several minutes after Ymir and Historia had left just trying to sort through everything they’d said. She felt exposed and vulnerable and a little bit violated, having had her protective layer of ice scraped away and her feelings dragged out into the open. For all of Ymir’s claims to knowing everybody else’s business, though, she apparently didn’t know that Annie was sterile. Or that Bertolt had gotten Annie pregnant in the past. That complicated things beyond the simple scenario the Reisses presented.  
  
Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe the scenario really was as simple as confess her feelings or get over them. So which would she choose?  
  
She touched a fingertip lightly to the peeking corner of her scar then headed down to pool.

* * *

  
  
The limousine was waiting outside, just as the driver had said it would be, when Reiner and Bertolt poured languidly from the front door of Sirvé Cor. They flopped down onto the leather bench with contented sighs, two happy victims of the food witch’s magic.  
  
“That was amazing,” said Bertolt. He was just the right amount of full, satisfied but not stuffed, and the memories of flavors and textures still lived on his tongue. What a perfect evening it had been—well, all but for the absence of Annie.  
  
Reiner nodded in agreement. “Yeah. I didn’t even know food could do some the things it did tonight. That Chef Hange is really something. Ooh, like that thing with the fizzly bits.”  
  
“And how about the one where we lifted the lid and all that smoke rolled out?”  
  
“Ah yeah, that one was great. I liked the deconstructed bacon and eggs. A little strange, but still, it’s bacon and eggs.”  
  
Short-term nostalgia for the meal persisted for the first ten minutes or so of the ride home and though Reiner participated enthusiastically, he couldn’t ignore the voice in the back of his head telling him that he was almost out of time. The things he had shared with Bertolt before dinner had been the first step, the lead-up, but he still couldn’t find the courage to make his declaration.  
  
While he talked about the food—because it felt like what they were supposed to talk about, but also because that molecular gastronomy stuff was pretty damn cool—Bertolt was also thinking about Ymir’s final note from the treasure hunt. _Happiness is within your grasp_. Had he really learned whatever it was she wanted him to learn from this experience? He’d gone on a date with Reiner and it had been one of the most incredible nights of his life. He was happy. But could they really be a happy couple when he still couldn’t stop thinking of Annie? Maybe the happiness Ymir meant wasn’t about a romantic relationship at all.  
  
He hadn’t gotten a chance to ask Reiner what he’d thought of the treasure hunt and the final clue. Maybe he’d come up with a different meaning to all of it. Bertolt was afraid to ask.  
  
When the food talk dwindled down to its natural end, an uncomfortable silence took up its place between the two boys in the limo’s cabin. A minute passed. Two minutes.  
  
 _This is it_ , Reiner thought. _This is the perfect moment. So why aren’t I saying anything? It’s not like I have to open with “I love you, Bertolt.” Dammit, just think of something to say!_  
  
Unable to bear the void any longer, Bertolt spoke. “So, how rigged was that treasure hunt?”  
  
Reiner blinked at him a moment, surprised that he was bringing it up now. “Totally,” said Reiner, matching the tone of nervous amusement Bertolt had used to ask the question. “It was so obvious I was embarrassed to say anything. But it’s not like we cheated. Historia and Ymir cheated to our benefit.” _To my benefit_, he thought. _And I’m totally blowing it._  
  
Bertolt fidgeted in his seat; he’d been sprawled out and relaxed when they’d first reentered the limo but had gradually curled in on himself as his anxiety grew. “Why do you suppose they wanted us to win so badly?” Hard as he tried to sound perfectly casual, there was a razor-thin trace of a warble in his voice.  
  
“I just figured they wanted to show us a good time,” said Reiner. He should have just told the truth here, but he didn’t. “Since their other friends are all actors and models and artists living here in L.A. and we’re the least likely to ever get chance like this again. That’s my take on it, at least.” No, not even close.  
  
So that was Reiner’s take on it. It was about giving them an opportunity that people like then (poor, unemployed, drifters) almost never get. It was not about setting them up on a date. “I wonder why they didn’t include Annie,” Bertolt sighed. “I mean, she’s one of us, too.”  
  
“Maybe they thought she wouldn’t enjoy it,” said Reiner. Bertolt’s mentioning Annie shouldn’t have smarted, especially since Reiner had as good as asked for it by framing this evening as a wholly platonic affair. And it was already an established fact that Bertolt loved Annie. Yet it smarted.  
  
 _Or maybe they were trying to hint that she doesn’t enjoy me_ , Bertolt thought. “I guess that sounds like a reasonable enough explanation,” he said. “Doesn’t really fit the last clue, though—happiness is within your grasp. You know, since experiences like this really aren’t within our grasp. I’ve got a feeling the happiness of absurd luxury is a one-time deal for us.”  
  
“That’s a good point,” said Reiner. _Tell him. Tell him. Tell him._ “I guess I don’t really know why they did it then.” _Idiot!_  
  
Bertolt felt a sweet, warm sadness spread through his chest. If Reiner didn’t see this as a real date, he wasn’t going to push that interpretation. He’d gotten his hopes up when he shouldn’t have, that’s all. But hadn’t Reiner said they would make tonight matter? Bertolt was fairly certain Reiner wasn’t talking about the suits or the limo or even the food when he said that. And nice as all of those things were, they weren’t the part of this non-date that had mattered to Bertolt. “Maybe they set it up this way so that you and I would open up to each other a little more,” he said.  
  
“It did make me really happy to tell you those things I’d been holding back.” Reiner smiled at him, tenderly. He was glad that Bertolt knew about his abandoned search for his father and about Marcel. It brought them closer, even if it was not as close as he wanted to be. “I think you might’ve hit on some truth there, Bertl. So Historia and Ymir wanted to show us a good time and also show us that we can be happier if we’re totally honest with each other.” Reiner cringed internally at the hypocrisy of his words.  
  
“Honesty is good,” said Bertolt. Fresh sweat was breaking out along his hairline as his thoughts went straight to Annie and the immense secret he was keeping from Reiner. If he were going to share it, now would be the time. He couldn’t, though, not after everything had been so wonderful tonight. He couldn’t make Reiner hate him.  
  
 _Yes_ , thought Reiner. _Honesty is good. Full honesty. Here goes nothing. Just close my eyes and dive right in._ “Hey Bertolt?” he said.  
  
“What is it?” said Bertolt.  
  
Reiner pivoted in his seat, angled himself towards Bertolt and inclined his upper body gently forward. He began in a quiet, earnest voice. “Since we’ve been being so honest tonight, there is one more thing I want to tell you. The truth is, I—“  
  
He was cut off by the soft, heavy sound of the limousine door opening. “Welcome back, Messrs Braun and Hoover,” the driver said, peering into the cabin with a chuffed smile on his face and beetle black eyes twinkling.  
  
Reiner pulled back, he hoped not abruptly enough to be suspicious. “Ah, great,” he said without conviction. “Thanks again for being our chauffeur for the evening.”  
  
The driver removed his hat and gave a small bow. “You are most welcome, sirs. Now I bid you adieu and good night.”  
  
Reiner picked his way up to the front door feeling like a abject failure and Bertolt followed silently behind him. He hadn’t been able to tell Bertolt that he loved him. He supposed he could do it out on the front steps, but that just had too much of a TV high school sitcom feel to it—with Historia and Ymir playing the disapproving parents, flicking the porch light on and off as a warning. Having fished the house-key Historia had entrusted to him from his pocket, Reiner pulled open the storm door. And found a note, addressed to him in Historia’s swirly hand.  
  
 _Hope your night out was absolutely magical. If you need something to cap it all off, though, why not go for a swim? The waterfall is dreamy! I left your suits and towels in the pool house._  
 _—Historia_  
  
 _p.s. The code for the gate is our wedding date._

   
Reiner sighed inwardly as he smiled outwardly. Leave it to Historia to anticipate him chickening out and encourage him to give it one more shot.  
  
“You have the key, right?” asked Bertolt as he arrived at Reiner’s side.  
  
Reiner’s thick fingers closed around the note, crushing it into a ball. “Yeah, I’ve got the key. You know what, though? I was thinking we should go around back and check out that new waterfall, maybe take a quick dip. I think our suits are in the pool house.”  
  
“Okay,” said Bertolt. “That sounds fun.” It sounded like the sort of thing that would probably be sexy if it happened after a real date—late night swimming, just the two of them. He shivered at the thought.  
  
When they got to the gate, Reiner entered the code (today’s date minus exactly two years) into the keypad and the lock released with a beep and a red light blinking to green. Then he held the gate open for Bertolt before he slipped inside and dragged it closed behind him.  
  
Underwater lamps made the pool glow like blue crystal while spotlights drew attention to the newly built waterfall. It was all stone slabs, stacked with deliberation, the largest spearing out over the deep end like Pride Rock and channeling a steady flow of water, which churned the surface of the pool below. Adding to the paradisiacal flair were dozens of tropical plants—the sorts that had huge, trumpet-shaped flowers and leaves the size of elephant ears—freshly planted all around the environment. It truly was stunning.  
  
After taking a few seconds to stop and admire, Bertolt and Reiner continued on their way towards the pool house. As they walked, Bertolt’s eyes drifted down to the pavement and spotted a trail of small, wet footprints heading from the pool towards the mansion. Too petite to be Ymir’s, but not accompanied by Ymir’s either, they could only belong to Annie. Annie must have just left the pool recently. Bertolt kept this observation to himself.  
  
The pool house was a small, neat cube of a structure, with a hipped roof and one window. Inside, it had just enough space to support a bathroom with a corner shower and toilet, and a changing room with a wall of boxy shelves for towels and clothes.  
  
As Historia’s note had promised, Reiner found swimsuits for himself and Bertolt atop folded, fluffy towels on the shelves. Not the same old suits they’d been wearing for the past two months, but new ones, in red and blue.  
  
“I’ll change in the bathroom and you can change here,” he said. He and Bertolt didn’t have an established policy regarding nudity. A lot of their living situations over the past three years had required them to undress in close quarters with their backs to each other, but that had been a matter of space. Here there was room enough for them to change comfortably in privacy and though Reiner didn’t know if Bertolt really cared one way or the other, being the gay best friend, he took it upon himself to voluntarily separate and avoid any possibility of causing discomfort.  
  
Reiner removed each piece of his fine Italian suit as carefully as he could and once he was clad in his new red shorts, he draped pants and shirt and tie and jacket over his arm and called to Bertolt through the door. “Safe to come out?”  
  
“Yeah,” came Bertolt’s reply, so Reiner opened the door and was just in time to see the waistband of Bertolt’s swimsuit pulling up over the smooth curve of his tan buttocks.  
  
 _Definitely not safe_ , Reiner thought, moving the curtain of his divested clothes strategically in front of him so he could pat down his budding erection. “Alright,” he said upon neutralizing the situation. “Let’s get in that pool.”  
  
Bertolt sighed in pleasure as he lowered himself into the cool water. Stylish as it looked, he’d been baking all evening in that suit, his shirt coming off with dark diamonds of perspiration under the arms. His hair was still sticky with sweat but instead of simply dunking his head he waded over to the plashing waterfall and let the stream sluice over him like a cold shower—helpful in more ways than one since he was in the presence of a wet, shirtless Reiner.  
  
“We should try not to be too loud,” he told Reiner, who had joined him under the waterfall. “It is pretty late and we don’t want to wake anybody.”  
  
Reiner snorted. “It’s only what? Eleven? I don’t think Historia and Ymir are already sleeping at this hour on their anniversary. I guess Annie might be, but she sleeps like the dead.”  
  
Considering the evidence that Annie had just recently left the pool, Bertolt didn’t think she was asleep quite yet. “Fine,” he sighed affectionately. “Go ahead and splash around like a walrus.”  
  
“Well if I’m a walrus then that makes you a seal,” said Reiner. He swept an arm across the surface of the water like a flipper, creating a miniature wave that sprayed across Bertolt’s face, and soon they were frolicking just like two mammals at Sea World. Or like their childhood selves at the neighborhood pool, playing deep sea explorers and pretending not to hear August Leonhart’s gentle pleas for them to get out for a drink and a fresh coat of sunblock. It amazed Reiner that he could so easily recapture that sense of young innocence with Bertolt.  
  
And suddenly a fear he’d long overlooked loomed up in his mind: would moments like this be lost forever once he confessed?  
  
This was not the time for more hesitation. Reainer knew tonight was not the only chance he would have to tell Bertolt how he felt, but he also knew (though he didn’t know how he knew) that if he didn’t do it tonight, he never would. And he would have to stop pining, stop wishing for something to happen that wasn’t going to happen.  
  
“You ready to get out?” Bertolt asked. He’d been having so much fun and didn’t really want it to end, but at the same time it was starting to grow painful because the longer this evening with Reiner went on the more he ached for it to be something he knew it wasn’t.  
  
“I guess so,” said Reiner. “I really did have an incredible time with you today, Bertl. You are my best friend and you always will be.” And there it was, his final statement. He’d chosen to quit the game and keep what little chips he had over going all in. As Bertolt turned and started towards the ladder, Reiner stayed where he was and watched his retreat, droplets of water sparkling like diamonds on his tapered back and wiry shoulders. He should have felt contented—this was the end he chose for himself—but instead he felt scraped out and bereft.  
  
“Bertolt, I love you.”  
  
The words froze Bertolt in pose with his hands gripping the sides of the ladder and one foot on the lowest rung. At once his heartbeat was in his stomach, his chest, his throat—his whole body pulsing. Slowly, he lowered himself back down into the pool and turned around to face Reiner. “What did you just say?” The question came out in a fragile whisper.  
  
“I said I love you.”  
  
The first time had been a force beyond Reiner’s control, the words bursting hotly from his mouth, but the repetition was wholly volitional. After that, the rest came easily. “I’m in love with you, Bertolt. I’ve been in love with you since the day we first met. And I’ve been trying all evening to work up the nerve to tell you—it’s the reason Historia set up this whole date—but the truth is I’m just a big coward who’s scared of getting his heart broken. So I waited until now and I’m saying it even though it might ruin our friendship because if there is any chance at all that you could love me back I have to take that risk and—”  
  
His confession was cut short by Bertolt’s lips pressing against his. Bertolt had closed the space between them so quickly that Reiner had no time to anticipate the kiss and he drew in a shuddering breath as hot pleasure snaked from his mouth down into his belly. He kissed back fiercely, hands grasping Bertolt’s spare, sinewy body and pulling it closer, closer, never close enough, even when their chests and stomachs were pressed skin to wet, naked skin.  
  
Bertolt kissed Reiner because saying “I love you, too” was not a strong enough response. He’d put his mouth on Reiner’s while still in full possession of his wits but as the kiss deepened he could feel them burning away. He hadn’t expected it to be so intense, like his whole body was engulfed in flames that scorched with pleasure instead of pain. Reiner’s tongue probed his lips, opened them and slid inside. Bertolt swallowed a moan, melting into the corded arms that held him. Only once before had he ever felt anything like this before.  
  
Annie. The thought of her cut through Bertolt’s fog of passion like a blade of ice. Gasping, he broke the kiss and wriggled out of Reiner’s arms, pushing himself back with a hand on Reiner’s broad chest. This was wrong, no matter how right it felt. He couldn’t have Reiner after what he had done to Annie. Reiner wouldn’t even want him if he only knew. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft and straining with the effort to hold back a sob of grief. His head was bowed, eyes squeezed shut, and his hand was still pressed over Reiner’s pounding heart. “I’m sorry, Reiner, but I can’t.” When he dared to look up he caught only a flash of the hurt and confusion on Reiner’s face because a split-second later Reiner was thrashing to the ladder.  
  
Reiner’s eyes stung with incoming tears as he staggered through the water and clambered up the ladder. _Shit! Shit! Shit!_ He’d gone all in with a losing hand. Bertolt had kissed him and it had been the most glorious moment of his life, the realization of his deepest, truest desire. But for Bertolt it must have been a test, an experiment to discover if he could feel for Reiner what Reiner felt for him. And the answer had been no.  
  
By the time he reached the pool house, Reiner’s whole body was shaking; hot, shameful tears were streaking down his face. He felt ruined. How could he face Bertolt after this? He knew he couldn’t hide in the pool house forever but he had nowhere else to run. Then he heard the rattle of the doorknob turning and realized he literally had no place to run. He was trapped.  
  
As soon as Bertolt pulled out of the kiss he mourned its loss, selfishly, because he wanted Reiner so badly even if he didn’t deserve him. But it only hit him seconds later what a complete and utter idiot he was for handling things the way he had. Reiner had offered him the love he longed for and what had he done? He had kissed him and then pushed him away with no explanation, all because he was too craven to tell the whole truth. Oh god, how could he have been so stupid? So heartless? How could he have let Reiner actually think that he didn’t love him?  
  
Bertolt flew to the pool house after Reiner, not sure what he could possibly say to undo the damage but knowing he had to say something. He stumbled inside, still breathing heavily from his sprint. The door to the bathroom was closed and the shower was running. Would Reiner even hear it if he yelled from this side? He wouldn’t know until he tried.  
  
First, he banged his fist on the door, but there was no reply from inside. “Reiner!” he shouted. “Reiner, if you can hear me, please open the door! Please let me talk to you!” Still no response. Experimentally, he turned the doorknob and found that it was unlocked. Was it a violation of privacy if the frosted glass barrier of the shower door remained between them? Bertolt impulsively decided that it wasn’t and went in.  
  
The air inside the bathroom was sultry, the mirror misted over. Behind the frosted glass, Reiner’s dark shape swayed and rippled, a blurry intimation of his mesomorphic physique. Bertolt stood right outside the shower door and spoke as loudly and clearly and steadily as he could manage with his insides in knots.  
  
“Reiner, I’m sorry I followed you in here but I need to tell you. I love you. I should have said it as soon as you did. Or before. I’m in love with you. I wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure of it. That’s the way I work. I love you and that’s why I kissed you. And that kiss was incredible. But I pushed away because I’m a bigger coward than you could ever be. There are things about me that if you knew—”  
  
With a sound like an exhalation, the shower door opened and Reiner’s face appeared in the aperture amidst tendrils of steam. His expression was hard and serious and he met Bertolt’s eyes dead on.  
  
“Bertolt,” he said in a voice as sober as his face. “Is what you just said true? Do you love me?”  
  
Bertolt bobbed his head. “Yes. I love you, Reiner.”  
  
“Do you _want_ me?” His tone left no ambiguity as to what kind of want he meant.  
  
“Yes,” Bertolt whispered and a shiver of arousal coursed through him; he was turned on by the very question. “I want you, Reiner.”  
  
Reiner sighed. “That’s all that matters to me, Bertolt. I don’t care about anything else. I don’t care that you are in love with Annie, too, as long as you love me.”  
  
Bertolt’s eyes went wide. Reiner knew about Annie? How much? For how long? But that didn’t matter; only one question mattered. “You really don’t care? You would still want to be with me even if I love two people?”  
  
“You’re all I’ve wanted since I was eight, Bertolt. As a best friend first, and then, as we grew up together, as a lover. I’ve known you love my sister for as long as I’ve known you. You fell for her the moment you laid eyes on her. And it’s a part of who you are. The Bertolt I’m in love with has always loved Annie and probably always will. I just want to be with you. I want you to want to be with me.”  
  
“Reiner.” Bertolt breathed the name. Their faces were so close now that he could see the tiny filaments of color in Reiner’s irises: brown and gold and olive and ochre. The rims of his eyelids were pink and swollen—had he been crying? Guilt stabbed the center of Bertolt’s chest at the thought that he’d made Reiner cry. He wanted nothing more than to lean in and resume that kiss from where he’d so harshly aborted it, but just as his eyes were fluttering closed, his face tilting forward, Reiner’s strong hand grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him into the shower.  
  
It was a small shower and they were two large men so Reiner knew when he pulled Bertolt inside that there wouldn’t be a lot of room to work with. But that was okay, because right now he wanted to be as close as possible. He wanted to wrap Bertolt’s body around his, wear him like a second skin. Bertolt loved him. Bertolt desired him. And oh god how he desired Bertolt. How was this really happening? He kept thinking it must be a dream and he would wake from it at any second, but every sensation, every emotion was too vivid, too potent to be anything but real. Bertolt was really his. At last.  
  
The steam inside the shower was not as dense as Bertolt thought it would be, not dense enough to hide a single detail of Reiner’s naked body, and for that Bertolt was infinitely grateful. He’d never seen Reiner fully nude, at least not as an adult, and he was struck by the incredible beauty of him. This Reiner was not a god chiseled from marble, as Bertolt had always envisioned, but breathtakingly human: flesh and bones and moving blood wrapped up in pale, uneven skin, flecked with birthmarks and blemishes. Of course he couldn’t help but to look down at the thatch of dark gold curls between Reiner’s strong legs and the thick member hanging half-hard against his thigh. It twitched when Bertolt laid eyes on it and his own pulsed in response.  
  
In an instant, Reiner’s hands were on him, feeling down the sides of his ribcage to his waist, his hips, and then under his swimsuit to squeeze his ass. Bertolt whimpered and snared his arms around Reiner’s back, fingers seeking purchase on burled muscles as hot water rained down. “Kiss me,” he breathed into Reiner’s ear, and Reiner obliged with gusto, melding their two mouths.  
  
While their tongues danced, Reiner’s hands remained on Bertolt’s rear, kneading the supple flesh of both cheeks. A truly magnificent ass and he was feeling it at last. He pushed the waistband of Bertolt’s swimsuit over the swell of his buttocks and gravity took over from there, the shorts pooling wet and heavy around Bertolt’s ankles.  
  
Stripped of his only covering, Bertolt was keenly aware of every point of contact between his body and Reiner’s: the hardness of Reiner’s belly against his; the hot, moist joining of their mouths; the insistent prodding of Reiner’s blunt cock between his thighs. Bertolt hungered desperately for more, but Reiner pulled back.  
  
The needy little moan Bertolt made when released was so erotic, Reiner had to fight the urge to snatch him back again, pin him against the tile wall and do things to him that would finish this all too quickly. But Reiner had been dreaming of his first time with Bertolt for too long to make it rushed and rough and impulsive. He was going to savor it, even if it took every once of self-control he had.  
  
“Your body is even more beautiful than I imagined,” he said as his hands explored, smoothing over the juts of Bertolt’s hips and down into the valleys where legs joined flat tummy. When his fingers brushed through the coarse black hairs around Bertolt’s stiffening cock—that magnificent, colossal cock—it earned him a delicious, tremulous mewl.  
  
Bertolt felt every inch of him that Reiner touched light up like a struck match. An unquenchable fire was spreading through him and soon his whole body would be consumed, scorched down to the bones, to ashes. But he wouldn't burn alone. Greedily, he reached for Reiner, grasping at shoulders and then groping down the rugged terrain of muscled back and turgid buttocks.  
  
With a low growl, Reiner returned his grip to Bertolt’s ass and yanked him close so their hips were flush, the shafts of their cocks rubbing against one another. He could feel himself losing the fight to make it last as the ache for release became too demanding to ignore any longer.  
  
Bertolt’s erection was painfully hard and throbbed like a heart. “Reiner,” he pleaded and Reiner understood, left hand retreating from his buttock and coming around to grasp the base of his penis. Bertolt let out a ruined sound as Reiner’s calloused fingers massaged the length of him. His thoughts were rapidly dissolving into rapturous haze but he held onto enough cognition to reach down between their two bodies and take Reiner in the same fashion, eliciting a gasp of pleasure. Though not exceptionally long, Reiner’s cock was prodigious in girth and Bertolt loved the feel of it filling his hand, the velvety soft skin and the sharp ridge of vein against his palm.  
  
As they stroked each other in desperate, unsynchronized rhythm, Bertolt surrendered to Reiner, letting himself be pushed back against the tile wall and pinioned in place—which was all for the best since his legs were buckling and threatening to collapse. It felt so good. It felt right.  
  
“W-wait!” Reiner stammered and Bertolt’s hand stilled. Clumsily, he scrabbled for the shelf on the shower wall, knocking a loofah and a bottle of conditioner to the floor before finding what he wanted, the Johnson’s Baby Oil. He coated both of his hands generously and drizzled more over the two upthrust pricks pressed shaft-to-shaft between them—it made for a gorgeous downward view—then he wrapped one hand around himself and Bertolt and stroked them both together.  
  
Bertolt added his hand so their grips formed a unified cuff which they pumped up and down their bundled cocks on the slippery glaze of baby oil. The fire that had previously suffused all corners of his body was now consolidating at his core, gathering in his belly like lava in a crucible. Reiner’s other hand was back on his ass, working the flesh in slow circles, sweeping closer to center with each circuit until— Bertolt drew a ragged breath as Reiner’s fingertips slid into his crack and over the puckered hole, rubbing around the sensitive ring of muscle with teasing gentleness. It was too much and he had to yelp for mercy.  
  
“Ah! St-stop!”  
  
Reiner withdrew his hand immediately as a wave of shame crested over him. He’d gotten carried away. “Sorry,” he breathed, leaning in to nuzzle Bertolt’s neck. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
“I’m just not ready—yet.” Bertolt hadn’t disliked the feel of it—a part of him had even wanted it to go further, for Reiner to push his lubricated finger up inside of him, all the way to the knuckle—but his body was already overwhelmed with sensation and there was only so much he could take while on his feet.  
  
“Okay,” Reiner whispered and kissed Bertolt sweetly on the mouth.  
  
Their hands began to work harder, faster, and they thrust into their mutual grasp, clinging to each other for leverage. Not content just to feel, Bertolt looked down. The tumescent heads of his and Reiner’s penises were pressed together like two plums, the tight skin shiny as silk and flushed a deep mauve, pre-ejaculate bubbling up from both slits and running down in clear strands. The sight caused the lava in Bertolt’s belly to pitch and his testes hugged upward as he let out a racked moan. “Oh god! Reiner! I’m going to—!”  
  
Reiner’s response was a feral growl. “Almost there, Bertl! Wait for me!”  
  
But Bertolt couldn’t wait. He came with a dragged out cry of Reiner’s name and the sound of it brought Reiner to release almost instantly. Not a simultaneous climax, but very close.  
  
Bertolt sagged against the wall, his upper back pressed to the tiles. His body was heavy with euphoria, his brain muzzy from sex and from breathing in steam—he was glad he didn’t have to stand unsupported just yet.  
  
The scent of sperm wafted up through the vapor; milky threads of it clung to their stomachs, their hands, and the softening members still grasped therein. Bertolt swiped a finger over the tip of Reiner’s penis to collect a blob and put it in his mouth. The strong taste made him wince, but he swallowed it.  
  
It may have been a distortion refractory bliss, but Reiner thought he had never seen anything more pleasing in his entire life. “What was that for?” he asked.  
  
“I just wanted it inside me. Your seed. Though, I guess it might have been my own.”  
  
Reiner pulled him into a protective embrace and kissed him hard. “How can you be so fucking perfect?”  
  
“You know I’m not perfect.”  
  
“Okay,” Reiner conceded, grinning. “You aren’t perfect. But you are my dream, Bertolt. I love you.”  
  
“I love you back,” said Bertolt.  
  
Reiner’s heart fluttered against his ribs like the wings of a bird; he knew he would never grow tired of hearing Bertolt say those words. “Now let’s clean each other off before the hot water runs out,” he said, though the water was already tepid.

* * *

  
  
Annie swam thirty-five laps of freestyle across the pool and, amazingly, only lost her bikini top twice. When she emerged, she felt somewhat mollified, or perhaps she was just too physically spent to think too hard about anything for a while. Forgoing the hassle of the pool house, she went back into the mansion still in her wet swimsuit (which was what the indecorous people who lived here typically did), and found the place dark and silent. No sign of those boys yet. Heaving a sigh, she headed up the stairs to her room, where, despite her exhaustion, she was pretty much guaranteed not to get any sleep.  
  
The most sensible course of action would be to get right in the shower, wash away all the residual drama of this day and let it swirl down the drain along with the pool chemicals. But Annie was feeling more wistful than sensible and she decided to step out on the balcony—now unequivocally her go-to contemplation spot—once more and enjoy the night breeze as it wicked the lingering damp from her skin.  
  
Weather-wise, it was actually a rather pleasant night, cloudless (though there was too much light pollution to see more than a handful of stars), and cooler than anyone would expect after such a blazing hot summer day.  
  
Annie moved up to the balustrade and put her arms up on the railing, the same pose Bertolt had found her in earlier that evening. Bertolt. Her Bertolt. Even while she was swimming, intently focused on her breathing and maintaining a neat, efficient stroke, part of her mind dwelled on what Ymir and Historia had said to her. Their advice had been acerbic and she was naturally inclined to reject it, particularly since it had come from two devious little trick-bags, but like some kind of parasite, the words had entered her bloodstream and lodged in her brain. And now she was thinking about how she was going to tell Bertolt that she loved him.  
  
She wasn’t a love person by nature. Oh, she’d said the words to Reiner and Dad, and to Mom (sometimes grudgingly), and she did love them very much. But that was family love and even in that she was rarely demonstrative; she didn’t have to be demonstrative because she knew that they knew she loved them. With the men she’d dated in the past, she had been a sex person, which had been fun for a while but eventually got old. Sex without attachment, while satisfyingly uncomplicated, ultimately left her feeling jaded. And then there was Bertolt. Bertolt was the first and only lover she had ever actually loved, even if she hadn’t understood the nature of her feelings for him at the time. Now she knew: he was the single-point intersection of devotion and desire.  
  
She rolled the thought around in her head like a pearl and it made her frightened and giddy: _I love him. I love Bertolt._  
  
Her mind was made up; she was going to tell him tonight. The swim must have cleared the leftover smoke  from her ragefire because now she could see how silly she was to think one ReiBert date meant all hope was lost. But all hope was lost if she gave up out of fear. There was a quote she remembered from a trite motivational poster she’d once seen in a school gym or a community center: “You always miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” It was attributed to some hockey player and had struck her as youth sports pap when she read it, but now she could appreciate the cheesy wisdom of the words. She had to take her shot.  
  
What Annie was significantly less certain about was whether or not she would tell Bertolt about her pregnancy. The baby she’d lost. Their baby. She supposed it would all depend on how he responded to “I love you.” If he rejected her feelings, she saw no reason to impose her old loss on him. But, in the highly unlikely, miraculous event that he did love her back, maybe he would want to share her old loss. Or maybe he would resent her for not telling him sooner. It was impossible to know.  
  
In the middle of her musing, the sounds of splashing brought her back to her senses and drew her eyes down to the pool. It was Reiner and Bertolt, back from their dinner and now cavorting in the water. Just childish play from the looks of it, though Annie couldn’t hear anything they might be saying. Curious—and enjoying Bertolt with his shirt off even from a distance—she kept watching. Bertolt moved toward the ladder, which meant he would come inside soon and Annie would finally have her chance. Her heartbeat quickened. But in the middle of pulling himself out of the pool, for some reason, Bertolt stopped. And went back in. And glided soundlessly through the water towards Reiner. And kissed Reiner on the mouth.  
  
Annie spun away from the scene immediately, the reaction as automatic as dodging a punch thrown in her face. The shock only hit her after the image was removed from her vision, not a violent, iron fist to the gut sort of shock, but a sudden coldness, like she’d just stepped off an airplane in Fargo, North Dakota, in January. The blood in her veins was crystallizing rapidly, numbness spreading from extremities, and she tottered back into her bedroom on nerveless legs. By the time she’d shut herself inside her bathroom, her whole body was ice.  
  
Without bothering to peel off her swimsuit first, Annie crawled into the bathtub like a wounded animal and just sat there, knees bent in front of her. Something wet and warm plipped onto the middle of her chest and rolled down the valley between her small breasts, and when she lifted a hand to her cheek, she discovered that she was crying. And once she discovered that she was crying, she cried harder, her whole body shaking with soft, whuffling sobs. This was the first time she’d cried like this since when she was in the hospital, and just like then, it had come upon her unbidden.  
  
 _Fuck. Why am I even crying? I knew it would be like this. I knew it would be like this but I got my hopes up anyways because I am just really fucking stupid. They’re together. Reiner and Bertolt are together just like I knew they would be. So why did I delude myself into thinking I had a chance?_

Here she actually stopped to consider the question and her despondency flashed to anger.  
  
 _Fucking Ymir and fucking Historia! It’s all your fault! You knew how Bertolt felt all along and you still made me admit that I’m in love with him. You made that great big speech to convince me it was a good idea to confess to him. Why? You would have had me tell him just to see me get my heart torn out! Fuck you, Ymir! And fuck you, Historia! Fuck you both and your stupid plan!_  
  
But all these nasty thoughts aimed at the Reisses didn’t make her feel any less shitty, because, like the old cliche said, the one she was really mad at was herself. She was mad at herself for daring to hope that Bertolt might return her feelings. She was mad at herself for realizing her feelings too late. Would it even have mattered if she’d realized it sooner? If Reiner was the one Bertolt wanted then Bertolt would never have wanted her. He would never be _her_ Bertolt. But he had been for one night. Bitterly she thought about what might have been if she hadn’t been hit by the truck. Would Bertolt have wanted to be with her and their baby?  
  
No. She wouldn’t have wanted him like that, out of obligation. And she wasn’t going to entertain any damn what-ifs.  
  
Loathe as she was to admit it, Ymir and Historia had been right about a few things. For one, if she wasn’t going to tell Bertolt how she felt—and in light of what she’d just seen, she didn’t think she could go through with it—then she was going to have to get over him somehow. And they were right when they said the self-destructive teenage melodrama had to end. But they were wrong in assuming that she could act on her own feelings without thinking about her brother’s. A kiss was not a contract, they said, but that kiss she witnessed meant that her big brother was happy. The same big brother who used to let her climb into his bed when she had a nightmare and had held her hand until she woke up after her surgery. Annie would never try to steal Reiner’s happiness, even if she thought she could.  
  
The tears had stopped now, leaving her face puffed and salt-sticky. Snorting back the residual phlegm from her crying jag, Annie wobbled to her feet and reached for the shower knob. She twisted the knob as far to the red side as it would go and stood directly under the flow as it changed from glacial to lukewarm to scalding. For long minutes she was still as a caryatid, made no move for the shampoo or body wash, but just let the water sear over her skin as if it could cleanse her of her feelings for Bertolt.

* * *

  
  
After the shower, Bertolt and Reiner had left the pool house wrapped in towels and crept stealthily through the darkened mansion on kitten feet, straight to Reiner’s bedroom. Now the two of them were lying on their sides in Reiner’s bed, their faces inches apart and their ankles Lincoln-Logged together. Bertolt was wearing one of Reiner’s t-shirts and a pair of Reiner’s boxers, both of which were a little too big for him, but in a comfortingly boyfriendy way.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t mind me sleeping in your bed with you?” he asked. “I honestly wouldn’t be offended if you’d rather I take the floor, spare yourself getting kicked or whacked across the face in the night.” He didn’t mention the option of him going back to his own room to sleep; he hoped that was not even under consideration.  
  
Reiner brushed his fingertips through the fine hairs on Bertolt’s temple. They’d been in bed like this for about ten minutes but had spent the first nine making out and were only now getting to practical talk of sleeping arrangements. “I want you in my bed, Bertl. I know about your sleep habits and I don’t care. I’m a sound sleeper anyway.”  
  
“That makes me happy,” said Bertolt. “Truth is, sleeping all alone in that big empty room just never felt right to me.”  
  
“I know exactly what you mean.” Reiner’s hand slipped around to the back of Bertolt’s head, drawing him into yet another kiss, this one soft and delicate.  
  
Bertolt came out of the kiss sighing contentedly. “It kind of amazes me how natural kissing you feels. Not awkward at all.”  
  
“You mean because I’m a guy?” Reiner asked curiously.  
  
“No,” said Bertolt. “It’s not that. I meant because you’re my best friend. I’d always thought transitioning between platonic love and romantic love was supposed to be weird and fumbly.”  
  
Reiner reached for Bertolt’s hand, pulled it to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “Maybe that means we were always meant to be like this. You know, there is one thing I’m wondering about, though, and I don’t really know if it is an appropriate question or not—”  
  
“Oh?” Bertolt raised an eyebrow. “Well you’ve brought it up so now you’re going to have to say it.” He let out a laugh to assuage Reiner’s anxiety. “I doubt anything you ask could actually offend me.”  
  
“Okay,” said Reiner, wiggling his shoulders to a more comfortable position because one arm was falling asleep. “I was wondering, Bertolt, since you love Annie, and you also love me, does that make you bisexual?”  
  
Bertolt blinked in surprise. It was a very good question he hadn’t even thought about before. “I guess it does,” he said uncertainly. “But I’ve never really thought of myself as bisexual. Never thought of myself as heterosexual, either. I guess I assumed I was because the only person I was attracted to for years was female. My attraction to Annie isn’t because she’s female, though. I’m attracted to her because I’m in love with her.” When he said this, the hairs on his arms prickled nervously—Reiner said he didn’t care that Bertolt also loved Annie, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear about it. “And then when I realized that I love you, Reiner, I realized that I was attracted to you, too. I’m sure this sounds incredibly stupid, but if I had to describe my orientation, I’d say that I’m a people-I’m-in-love-with-sexual.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound stupid at all,” Reiner said, caressing Bertolt’s cheek. “I think it’s beautiful. Wish I was like that.”  
  
“Why?” Bertolt asked. “If anything, it’s abnormal. Attraction first and then love is the order it’s supposed to go.”  
  
Reiner sighed. “Maybe. But if I worked the way you do, then you would’ve been my first time instead of Marcel.”  
  
“Is that it?” Bertolt said softly. He stroked his thumb over Reiner’s stubbled jawline. “You know I don’t care about that, right?”  
  
“I know.” Reiner said it resignedly, but then smiled in acceptance. “At least I got to be your first, Bertl. And that makes me so incredibly happy.”  
  
Bertolt pushed Reiner’s hand off of his face abruptly and rolled onto his back. He knew this was going to come out eventually, he’d just been hoping it wouldn’t have to be tonight, that he could enjoy one night being a happy couple with Reiner before confessing the secret that could potentially ruin their relationship.  
  
“What’s wrong, Bertl? Did I say something wrong?” Reiner didn’t understand; hadn’t Bertolt said he doubted anything Reiner said could actually offend him?  
  
Bertolt stared up at the ceiling, scared to look Reiner in the eye when he said this. “Reiner, you weren’t my first.” Even though he didn’t turn his head, he could sense Reiner’s flinch of betrayal. “I’m sorry.”  
  
The news hit Reiner like a flashbulb, a second of shock and hurt followed by blinking confusion. “But you said—” Then, sudden clarity. “You can’t mean—Annie?”  
  
There were tears balanced precariously on the rims of Bertolt’s eyelids and they dribbled down onto the pillowcase when he rolled back to face Reiner. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he whispered.  
  
“But—” Reiner’s mouth could only form monosyllabic words. “When? How?”  
  
“It was the night before we moved in with Marco and Jean, when me and Annie stayed in the motel together. She and I had a fight and then she lost Luna and I found Luna and we made up and, well, it just sort of happened.”  
  
“Who initiated it?” Reiner asked, brow furrowing.  
  
“She kissed me first,” said Bertolt. “But I kissed back. It was mutual.” He paused. “Or at least I thought it was at the time. I’m pretty sure she regretted it after it was over. But I swear, Reiner, I didn’t take advantage of her. I would never—!” His voice broke and Reiner pressed cool fingers over his quivering lips.  
  
“I know you wouldn’t,” said Reiner. His chest was tight, as if he were being held in a titan’s grasp, but he couldn’t let Bertolt think he was mad at him. “What happened afterwards? Did you—did you tell her how you feel about her?”  
  
Bertolt shook his head. “No. And I’m glad I didn’t. When it was over, she said we had to pretend that it never happened because sex between friends made things messy and complicated. And I agreed. But—you know, I couldn’t really forget about what happened. It would be like forgetting about what happened between you and me tonight.” Glumly he added, “I don’t think Annie really forgot, either. She just seemed different from then on, unhappy somehow. Especially when she looked at me. I kind of feel like it was my fault that she had her car accident, but that’s crazy isn’t it? Even if she thought making lo—having sex with me was a huge mistake, it wouldn’t haunt her for months afterwards. Right?”  
  
“it’s not your fault,” Reiner soothed, cradling Bertolt’s chin. “It’s not your fault.” His vision blurred with tears; he was crying, not for himself, but for Bertolt, who’d spent years blaming himself for Annie’s depression. “You only did what anyone would have done given the chance to be with the person he loved. And Annie—I don’t really know what to say about Annie and her dealings with men except that it has never felt right to me. Like, ever since Dad died she’s been afraid to get attached to anybody.”  
  
“That’s actually what our fight was about,” said Bertolt. He was still crying, but it was a slow leak, droplets beading on his eyelashes and only falling every couple of blinks. “She’d made a date for that night—oh, and she invented this weird story about how I was her cousin—and it was probably just because I was jealous and hurt, but I started needling her about the way she picked up men and tossed them out. It was stupid. I was the one being a jerk. I just didn’t want her to leave me and go out with that pancake shack waiter.”  
  
Reiner propped himself up on an elbow and gazed intently down at Bertolt. “Did you say a pancake shack waiter?”  
  
Bertolt nodded. “We had dinner in a pancake place and this guy was our waiter. His name was Erd or Ald or something. Kind of elfy looking. In any case, Annie missed her date with him, so I guess I got what I wanted. But maybe her life would have gone better if she’d spent her evening with him instead of me.”  
  
The pieces of the puzzle had already connected in Reiner’s brain by the time Bertolt finished his explanation. He saw the whole picture now and it filled him with silent fury. But he had to keep calm and not let Bertolt detect that he was boiling inside—Bertolt wasn’t his target. “Like I said, Bertl, I don’t think you did anything wrong and I don’t think you caused Annie’s withdrawal. That probably doesn’t erase your guilt, but it’s the best I can do.”  
  
“Thank you,” Bertolt said softly. “Just knowing you don’t hate me for what I did makes me feel a lot better. I was so scared to tell you about this, Reiner. You have no idea. You really aren’t mad at me?”  
  
Reiner leaned down and kissed him twice, on the forehead and then on the lips. “No, I’m not mad at you. And I could never, ever hate you, Bertl. I love you.” One more peck on the lips and then he sat up on the bed, careful to make it look relaxed and natural. “Hey, mind if I go an get myself a late night snack? All those little alien finger foods were tasty but they don’t keep a guy like me full for very long.”  
  
“You’ll come back, right?” Bertolt asked, and felt like an insecure ninny as soon as he did. But he still had difficulty believing Reiner wasn’t upset with him.  
  
“I promise I will,” said Reiner. “Do you want me to bring you anything from the kitchen?”  
  
“A glass of water would be nice. Thanks.”  
  
Before he moved towards the door, Reiner opened the single drawer under the nightstand and fished out his iPod and the top-of-the-line over-the-ear headphones (Historia’s) attached to it. “Here,” he said, setting them on the bed next to Bertolt. “I found it in the Toyota’s glove compartment on Thursday. Can’t believe I forgot to tell you. It hasn’t been updated with any new songs in almost four years now, but the stuff that’s on there is pretty good. Maybe you’ll find something to sing next Karaoke Night.”  
  
“Ah, thanks,” said Bertolt, picking up the headphones and inspecting them. “Don’t be gone too long, though, okay?”  
  
Reiner smiled warmly and tousled his dark hair. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.” He walked to the door and waited until the headphones were over Bertolt’s ears to step out and close it behind him. It was a stroke of good fortune that he’d found the iPod this week—it really was in the glove compartment—because Annie’s room was right next door and he definitely didn’t want to be heard through the wall.  
  
With four purposeful strides, he reached the door to his sister’s room. Not wanting to disturb Historia and Ymir, he skipped knocking and grabbed the doorknob, but it was locked. “Dammit,” he growled through his teeth. He’d try the balcony door before resorting to anything noisy. Stealthily, he stepped over to the next door, Bertolt’s, and slipped inside. His eyes swept over the bed with its twisted mass of sheets and blanket as he made his way over to the balcony door and went through it. Turns out there was no need to get into Annie’s room; she was outside on the balcony.  
  
Annie was looking mournfully out over the valley but turned her head when she heard footfalls. “Reiner.” Before she could say more than his name, he swooped forward and seized her roughly by her upper arms.  
  
“Did you fuck Bertolt?” he asked in a deadly voice.  
  
“What?” Annie was jarred by the sudden attack. Her brother’s eyes were dark pits of rage and his fingers gripped without a trace of gentleness.  
  
“Did you fuck Bertolt?” he repeated, slower but more threateningly.  
  
“I assume that _you_ did,” she spat back.  
  
“This isn’t about me, Annie. Now answer the damn question!” He kept the volume of his voice low but his anger still came through.  
  
Annie glared at him. “First take your hands off of me.” He let go immediately, throwing his hands up with fingers spread. “Thank you,” she said curtly. “In answer to your question, you were with Bertolt all evening so how could I possibly have fucked him? Think I snuck into the restaurant and did it when you were in the bathroom?” The sarcasm oozed from her like a frog’s defensive poison as her heart pounded in fear. He knew.  
  
Reiner loosed an irritated grunt. “Cut the crap, Annie. You know I’m not talking about tonight. I’m talking about the night you two stayed in a motel room outside of St. Louis. Did you have sex with Bertolt in that motel room? And don’t you dare try to deny it because he told me you did.”  
  
“Then why are even asking me?” she sneered. “Isn’t his word good enough for you?”  
  
“I want to hear it from you, Annie.”  
  
She flopped down her arms, hands smacking against the sides of her bare thighs. “Fine. If that’s what you want, I’ll say it. I had sex with Bertolt in that motel room. Happy? It’s not like it changes anything. He’s still with you now.” The muscles around her eyes twitched like a storm warning; she wanted desperately to keep her composure and not cry again.  
  
“That’s right,” said Reiner, a little bit proudly. “Bertolt is with me now. And I consider it my duty to deal with anyone who hurts him, including you, sister. Annie, how could you _do that_ to him?”  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry, brother. I didn’t realize that consensual sex was an act of cruelty.”  
  
“It is when it’s with a guy who’s been in love with you since he was seven and you tell him to pretend it never happened!”  
  
Annie’s ears pricked at the l-word in the middle of her brother’s outburst. “What do you mean Bertolt was in love with me?” Before he could reply she shook her head and said, “No, I don’t believe it. If Bertolt was in love with me I would have known about it. I’m not that stupid.”  
  
“Not stupid,” Reiner said scathingly. “Just insensitive. He was always looking at you, longing for you, willing to do anything for you. And you didn’t notice because you never even saw him as a man.”  
  
“Not you, too,” Annie groaned. “Look, if I’m insensitive for not realizing Bertolt was in love with me, by that same logic, wasn’t he insensitive for not realizing you were in love with him? How does that work, huh?”  
  
“He thought of me as a friend.” Reiner knew the explanation was weak and his face grew hot with frustration at his inadequacy.  
  
“And I thought of him as a friend,” Annie snapped back. “And by the way, the reason I told him we had to pretend it didn’t happen was because I felt guilty for betraying you, Reiner. I felt so shitty for sleeping with the person my big brother loved that I wanted to undo it.”  
  
She huffed angrily through her nose as she anticipated Reiner’s next line. But it didn’t come right away, and in the ensuing quiet, her brain unclenched like a fist. Comprehension that had been shut out because she was so focused on countering her brother now seeped in. Bertolt had been in love with her and she’d never noticed it. Every moment between the two of them up until the night of her mistake suddenly took on a new tint in her memory and would need to be reexamined. But then, what would be the point? Bertolt had loved her and she’d missed it. And now he loved her brother.  
  
“But you couldn’t undo it, could you?” Reiner finally said. It had taken him a long pause to prepare for what came next. “Annie, I’m going to ask you another question and I need you to tell me the truth.”  
  
“Go ahead.” She knew what he was going to ask.  
  
“Was it his?”  
  
Her raw tear ducts burned. She wrapped her arms around her middle, over Bertolt’s shirt, and when she spoke, her voice was as thin as a ghost. “Why do you keep asking questions you already know the answers to?”  
  
In the depth of his heart, yes, Reiner had already known the answer, but he’d still harbored a fool’s hope that he’d be proven wrong. Now it was confirmed: Annie had been pregnant with Bertolt’s child. “Were you ever going to tell him?” Reiner’s voice came out anguished and croaky.  
  
Annie bristled like a mama wolf at his tone. What right did he have to be hurt? “Well eventually I would’ve had to!” she snarled, tears bursting stingingly forth at last. One hand clapped over her mouth and the other reached out for the balustrade railing to steady her.  
  
Reiner watched his little sister as she wept mutely into her hand, her small body quaking with emotion. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “You were going to keep the baby.” What was meant to be a question came out as a sad, plain statement of fact. Fraternal instinct made his arms start to lift towards her but he caught himself and dropped them at his sides. He had to wait for her cues.  
  
Unable to speak just yet, Annie bobbed her head.  
  
Reiner took one big step closer to her. In the gentlest voice he could produce, he asked, “You wanted it, didn’t you?”  
  
His sister looked up at him with pink, miserable eyes and said, “More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life.”  
  
It was the first time Annie had ever admitted this out loud to anybody and through that simple act of sharing, all the grief she’d spent the last year and a half trying to smother came rushing back, as new and powerful as the day it happened. When she let out a wail of sorrow, it was absorbed by her brother’s t-shirt. His arms were around her, hugging her fiercely.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he held her against him. “I’m so sorry, Annie. I had no idea. I didn’t think—”  
  
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she whimpered. “I kept it to myself. I lied to you. I thought you would hate me if you knew.”  
  
Reiner rubbed her back soothingly. “I don’t hate you, Annie. I couldn’t.”  
  
“I actually imagined the three of us raising it together.” Annie let out a pathetic little laugh. “How ridiculous is that?”  
  
“It’s not ridiculous at all.”  
  
When she looked up at him, Reiner saw that Annie’s eyes were more ravaged than three minutes of crying could account for—the whites were heavily webbed with red capillaries and half-moon pouches swelled beneath her lower lids. This was not her first cry of the evening, which was an alarming realization since Annie was not one who broke down easily. But what could have brought her to tears earlier in the evening? With a twinge of sadness, the answer came to him.  
  
“Annie,” he said softly. “Can I ask you just one more question?”  
  
She sniffed and said, “Yeah,” in a puny voice.  
  
“Are you in love with Bertolt?”  
  
Annie looked up at Reiner’s face, his brow creased with anxiety. She wanted to tell him no, but truths, just like lies, had a tendency to spill out one after another. “Yes. I’m in love with him. But it doesn’t matter, Reiner. He loves you now.”  
  
Reiner took a step back, still holding her by the shoulders. “But it does matter. Annie, Bertolt has never stopped loving you. Even after—” Reiner stopped and sighed. “He _loves_ you.”  
  
“He’s _with_ you, Reiner. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”  
  
Hot tears glided down Reiner’s face. “Yes. But you’re what he’s always wanted. Before he ever wanted me. I’ll only ever be his second choice.”  
  
“Don’t even say that,” Annie said hoarsely, swatting him with her fist. “Bertolt loves you and—and as long as you two are happy together, I’ll find I way to get on with my life.”  
  
“How can I accept happiness that comes at the price of yours? And also—” This bit was harder for him to say. “If you don’t tell Bertolt how you feel, a part of me is always going to feel like I’m just a consolation prize for him. I’ll always wonder if he would be happier with you.”  
  
“Then you’ll just have to dedicate your life to making him happy for both of us,” said Annie, fully aware of how mawkish the line was but frankly not giving a shit.  
  
“Annie, you have to tell him.”  
  
“I refuse.”  
  
“Then I’ll tell him myself.”  
  
“And I’ll deny it.”  
  
“Could you really look Bertolt in the eye and tell him you don’t love him?”  
  
“I can sure as hell try. I’m the same as you, Reiner. I can’t accept happiness that comes at the price of yours.”  
  
“I’ll still tell him. I’ll break up with him and then neither of us will be with him.”  
  
“Well that’s just idiotic. One of us should be with him. And since you’re already with him, it should be you.”  
  
“But maybe he was always meant to be with you.”  
  
“And maybe he was meant to be with you.”  
  
“Oh my god. Could you two be any more fucking ridiculous?”  
  
Annie and Reiner both turned in unison to see Ymir, in plaid shorts and a tank top, with her hands on her hips and an aggravated scowl on her face. Historia was at her side in a frilly pink nightgown and a much more amicable expression.  
  
“How long have you two been listening?” Reiner asked.  
  
“Long enough,” chirped Historia.  
  
“When we heard wailing outside, we thought coyotes had gotten into the yard,” said Ymir. “But it turns out it was just you two idiots. You know, I really thought our role in this ordeal was finished, but I guess we overestimated you three’s abilities to problem solve. So let’s just get this shit taken care of. Oh, but we’re still one short. Tori?”  
  
Historia fluttered her eyelashes eagerly. “Yes?”  
  
“Run inside, will you, and go fetch Longshanks?”  
  
“I’m on it!” She scurried back inside, trailing a cloud of blond hair.  
  
Reiner watched her go and then shifted his attention to Ymir, whose body language had relaxed. “Nice night tonight,” she said breezily. “It really cooled down didn’t it? Ah, but we’ve still got August to endure before the weather will really start to get lovely. California autumns are simply wonderful.”  
  
“Uh—” said Reiner.  
  
Annie kept her lips in a tight line.  
  
Historia reappeared dragging a bewildered looking Bertolt by the hand. “What’s going on?” he was muttering.  
  
Ymir pressed her palms together. “Alright, good. Now that you’re all gathered, we can finally sort this all out. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”  
  
“Sort what out?” Bertolt asked. Historia had come to Reiner’s room just as he was starting to worry that Reiner wasn’t coming back and told him to follow her. She’d given him no real explanation, but he’d gone with her, assuming that an answer awaited. Now he found himself in the middle of what strongly resembled and intervention. “I think maybe there’s been a misunderstanding. I haven’t had a drink in months. I swear.”  
  
“I know you haven’t,” Ymir said, aggressively mussing his hair. “You’re a good boy, Bertl. And quite popular, too. In fact, these two sexy blond _morons_ right here were just fighting over which one of them loves you more. And apparently the winner gets to sacrifice his or her happiness so the other can be your One Twu Wuv.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Bertolt looked over to Annie and Reiner, both bleary-eyed and smeared with tears. “Oh my god. Are you okay? What happened?”  
  
“It’s pretty much exactly as Ymir said,” Reiner answered. “Annie and I were fighting because it turns out we’re both in love with you, Bertl.”  
  
“You too, Annie?” He stared at her in disbelief, expecting a denial. But she nodded. “Since when?”  
  
“I don’t know,” she said. “A long time. I only realized it when I saw you and Reiner were going to become a couple and I’d lose my chance forever. Pretty fucked up, isn’t it?”  
  
“It’s not—” Bertolt began to speak, but Ymir interrupted.  
  
“Okay, hold your tongue, Longshanks. You lot have demonstrated that you are incompetent bunglers when it comes to your feelings for each other so Tori and I are going to intervene one last time for you. First, to get you gentlemen all caught up, I’ll give you the very short version of what I already told blondie.”  
  
“I’m no blonder than your wife,” Annie grumbled and was pointedly ignored by Ymir.  
  
“You three are entangled in an incredibly stupid, unbearably tedious love triangle. We do not know the whole story of what you’ve been through in your travels, but we know you’ve faced and overcome far tougher personal challenges than this. The whole Treasure Hunt–Date Night–Jealousy plot was supposed to get you all to open up and talk to each other so you would realize that there is a very simple solution to all of this.”  
  
“And what simple solution would that be?” asked Annie skeptically.  
  
Ymir shot her a disdainful look.  
  
Historia chortled. “Well just consider the facts. Reiner, Annie, you’re both in love with Bertolt, right?” They nodded. “But, you both claim that you can only be happy if the other, as well as Bertolt, is happy, right?” Again, they nodded. “And Bertolt, you are in love with both Annie and Reiner, right?”  
  
“Yes,” Bertolt admitted. “But I can’t bear to be a cause of pain for either one of them.”  
  
“Exactly!” Historia said, as excitedly as if she’d just proven a scientific theory. “You can only be happy if both of them are happy and each of them can only be happy if you are a happy couple with the other.”  
  
Somewhere in all of that, Bertolt had missed the point. “And—?”  
  
Ymir rolled her eyes at him. “Well it doesn’t take Arkady Renko to solve this case. Bertl, you’re just going to have to be in a relationship with both of them. So, Leonhart sibs, how good were you two about sharing your toys when you were little?”  
  
Annie and Reiner looked at each other. Then they both looked at Bertolt.  
  
Annie spoke first. “I might be crazy for saying this, but I think I’d actually be okay with that. That is, if Bertolt wants that kind of relationship. And if you’re okay with it, Reiner.”  
  
“If you’re crazy than I am, too,” said Reiner. “Because I could definitely live with that solution.”  
  
Ymir slapped Bertolt across the back. “So that just leaves you, Longshanks. What do you say?”  
  
“To being in a relationship with two people at once?” he said. “Isn’t that kind of—strange?”  
  
“It’s not like you’d be doing them at the same time,” Ymir said mirthfully. “I guess you could if you wanted, but it might be awkward, them being siblings and all.”  
  
“There’s no one kind of relationship that fits for everyone,” said Historia. “Since there are so many different ways people love each other. Different orientations and different kinds of desire. You three are already bound to each other by devotion. Becoming lovers would just be a new dimension to your little unit.”  
  
Bertolt turned back to Annie and Reiner. “And you two would really be okay with that?”  
  
“We love you,” said Annie.  
  
“And we also love each other,” Reiner added. “The more I think about it, the more I realize that this is the only way I would ever want it to be.”  
  
“You guys—” Bertolt’s lower lip trembled. Tears of joy sprang to his eyes and he threw his arms around both of them. “I love you both so much. I can’t—I can’t believe you love me back. You love me. You both love me.” He kept saying it; the taste of the words in his mouth were better than anything Chef Hange could whip up.  
  
“I love you, Bertolt,” Reiner said. Then he leaned in and kissed Bertolt on the mouth, slow and sweet.  
  
To Annie’s relief, this kiss didn’t bother her at all. Actually, it was kind of hot. It made her want to kiss Bertolt even more. “I love you, too,” she said when they finished.  
  
Bertolt curled a hand over Annie’s cheek and she leaned into his touch. Even with her eyes all puffy from crying, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And she loved him. He wanted to kiss her, but it wasn’t exactly like kissing Reiner, with whom he’d already spent a good part of the night making out. This would be his first time kissing Annie since that other fateful night.  
  
“Have you changed your mind?” Annie asked, voice warbling nervously.  
  
“No,” he breathed. “I’m just having trouble taking my eyes off you for long enough to kiss you.  
  
Annie gave a wet, snuffling laugh. “You colossal dork,” she said as she hooked her hands behind his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. It started out soft, tentative, and then they just melted against each other. Annie’s whole body tingled, every nerve awake and singing the Hallelujah Chorus.  
  
As Reiner watched his sister kissing the man they both loved, an unexpected sense of contentment spread through him. It was a feeling like everything finally made sense and they were all going to be okay. But there were still a few loose ends to tie up.  
  
“Yay! Everybody is happy now!” Ymir was clearly too exhausted to put any genuine enthusiasm into her words so they sounded sarcastic, but Bertolt knew that she was being sincere.  
  
Historia actually applauded in celebration. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I think this calls for some after midnight cake! Who wants to join me?”  
  
“You know I’m in,” said Ymir, slinging an arm over her. “And you three love bunnies?”  
  
“I’ll join you,” said Reiner. “But I think these two might need a little time alone together, to talk about things.” He glanced over at Bertolt and Annie, the latter giving him a tiny, appreciative nod.  
  
“Okie-dokie,” said Ymir. “You kids have fun _talking_.” She did a little hand solute goodbye and escorted Historia back into the house.  
  
Reiner faced Bertolt and Annie, placing one hand on each’s shoulder. “I’ll see you both later.” Then he went inside after the Reisses.  
  
  
  
Bertolt was alone with Annie. And she loved him. It felt unreal. He stood facing her, holding both of her hands, one in each of his. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long time,” he said. “Not just regular talking, I mean, because we do that all the time. I mean serious talking, about things that I didn’t know how to bring up with you before.”  
  
“Yeah,” she said. “Me too. There are things I probably should’ve said to you a long time ago. Even before I had this epiphany that I love you.” When she said those three words, Bertolt got a dazed, happy look in his eyes, like he still couldn’t believe it. “I don’t blame you for being stunned by the news. I’ll be the first to admit that I haven’t been especially friendly to anyone for a good long while.”  
  
This was it, what Bertolt wanted to talk to her about. “It’s true you’ve been different ever since the accident,” he said. “I wouldn’t call it unfriendliness, though. More like withdrawn and melancholy. I know I have no right to presume anything, but to me, it seems like you’ve been really depressed. I’ve worried about you a lot, Annie.”  
  
“I never meant to worry you,” she said, squeezing his hands. “You aren’t wrong, Bertolt. I have been depressed. Or at least that’s the best word I can think of to describe it.”  
  
“I’m sure this is going to sound self-absorbed, but was it something that I did?”  
  
Annie shook her head. From someone else the question probably would have sounded self-absorbed, but when Bertolt asked it (softy, all his focus on her) she could tell that he genuinely thought he’d done something to hurt her and wanted to make it right. “I promise you, Bertolt, you did nothing wrong. I want to tell you why I’ve been like this, but it’s hard to know exactly where to start.” She paused, gnawed her lower lip, thinking. “Maybe it would be easier if I _showed_ you. Can we go back to my bedroom?”  
  
“Yeah, of course,” said Bertolt. He followed her inside and sat down on the edge of her bed, watching as she vanished into the closet and emerged with one hand closed around something.  
  
Annie sat down next to him, hip touching hip. Doing this side-by-side was a modicum less nerve-racking than face-to-face. “Here,” she said, transferring the fetched item from her hand to his.  
  
Bertolt blinked down at the square of folded paper resting on his palm. Using his fingertips with tweezer precision, he unfolded it and recognized what it was immediately. “Annie?” he said, twisting his neck to look at her. “Is this what I think it is?”  
  
Annie sucked in a deep breath. “That,” she said measuredly, “was our baby.” Just saying it made her eyes moist again and she silently cursed her overactive glands—she’d already done more crying today than during the entire rest of her life.  
  
“Our baby?” Bertolt asked. He watched Annie’s chin do a vigorous little jounce and then looked back down at the ultrasound image. The printout was grainy, and months of being folded had worn a crosshairs pattern through the toner, but the light silhouette on the black field was unmistakable. Its tiny face was in profile—nose, lips, chin, all where they should be—and there was an arm and a leg and a little round belly. Annie’s baby. His baby. A baby that didn’t exist. “You were pregnant,” he said. “And I had no idea. I—I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”  
  
“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t notice either until just a few days before that picture was taken.”  She placed a hand on Bertolt’s arm, up near the crook of his elbow. “That little baby was growing inside me for three months before I even knew it existed. Maybe it was because I was so focused on trying to pretend the night we made it hadn’t happened. My head and my heart were so mixed up, I wasn’t paying attention to what my body was telling me.”  
  
There was a second of quiet—really, how could Bertolt have responded to that?—and Annie removed her hand from his arm, tucked it with the other in her lap and looked down at them. “I want you to know, Bertolt, that I am aware now of how completely shitty I was to you back then. At the time, I was completely unaware of your feelings for me, and even less aware of my feelings for you—though, looking back, I am pretty sure I already had some, buried inside me. But I did know that Reiner was in love with you, and that by making love to you, I had betrayed him. I felt so damn guilty and I know that just sounds like an excuse and it is an excuse so I don’t expect you to forgive me but I thought that you should know.” The last sentence came out in a continuous ribbon, her voice and her posture both tightening towards the end.  
  
Bertolt didn’t speak immediately, but just watched Annie—back hunched, eyes on her lap, limbs clenched—waiting for her to unknot. “It’s okay,” he finally said. “I’m not mad at you. I won’t lie and say I wouldn’t have been relieved to know back then that you didn’t actually hate me, but you did what you thought was right at the time.”  
  
Annie looked up at him, a fragile expression of hope painted on her face. “Yeah?”  
  
He smiled gently and said, “Yeah. The fact that you and Reiner care so much about each other only makes me love both of you more.” Annie’s hand slid into his and he laced their fingers together, hoping she wouldn’t take it back again.  
  
“But you know,” she said, “as hard as I tried to pretend it didn’t happen, I couldn’t forget. I felt closer to you that night than I’d ever felt to anybody before in my life. You got me to admit things I didn’t think I wanted to share. Made me think about tough questions, about what’s important to me and what I want in life.”  
  
“We had quite a row that evening,” Bertolt said.  
  
Annie loosed a single laugh. “True. But you wouldn’t have been able to rile me up so badly if I didn’t care so much about what you thought. And then you went out and found my Luna. I didn’t even have to ask. You just knew. That night—it wasn’t like other times I’d had sex. The men I’d been with before, I had sex with them because I wanted sex. But I had sex with you because I wanted _you_ , Bertolt.” She watched his adams apple bounce as he swallowed.  
  
“I never could forget that night either,” he said. “I forced myself to act like I had, but that’s all it was—an act.”  
  
“You did a good job,” said Annie. “I saw how contented you were and believed that sex with me hadn’t really meant much to you, that the memory only haunted me.” Bertolt’s lower lip wibbled and Annie thought that he might say something but he let her continue. “So I just took that as more evidence that pretending it never happened was for the best. You and Reiner were both happy and that was what mattered. And then—then I found out I was pregnant.”  
  
She peered down at the ultrasound printout, which Bertolt held by its very edge with his thumb and first two fingers, as if it were something precious and frangible—a pressed rare flower or the wing of an extinct butterfly. In the eighteen months since the accident, Annie had only looked at it a handful of times. It wasn't because the image instilled any extra sorrow in her; she simply didn’t see the point of poring over a picture of her dead baby, smoothing it out on her pillowcase and tracing the shape with a finger as she wept. That just wasn’t her style. But she hadn't thrown it away.  
  
“Were you—” Bertolt began without thinking beforehand what the right word to use was. Happy? Upset? He went with, “Scared?”  
  
“Terrified,” Annie admitted. “And not just because it would blow the lid off our secret. At no point in our travels have circumstances been conducive to having a baby. Naturally I considered all of my options.” She held her breath a moment to see if Bertolt would react to that; even though she’d avoided using the actually a-word, he was smart enough to know that was the option she meant. But his only response was to give her hand a tight squeeze. “When I went to the doctor, though, and I saw the baby and heard its heartbeat, I knew that it was mine. I wanted it.”  
  
“You could already hear a heartbeat?” Bertolt’s eyes were rounded with wonder as he looked at her face, and then at the picture, and then back at her face.  
  
“It was pretty amazing.” On that cue, the rapid _wub-wub-wub-wub_ played perfectly in her memory. “Of course, deciding to keep the baby meant the secret was going to come out. I didn’t have any clue how I was going to break the news to my brother or to you. I didn’t—“ She looked back down at her lap again, uncomfortable saying this directly to his face, and her voice went softer. “I didn’t know if you would be happy or angry or if you’d want to take any part in raising it with me.”  
  
With urgency Bertolt said, “Annie, you know I—”  
  
She cut him off by pressing four fingertips to his lips and saying, “Hush. It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.” Really she couldn’t bear to hear what she knew he’d been about to say, whether it was true or just a sweet lie because he knew he’d have actually panicked when he found out. “Turned out I didn’t need to break the news to anyone. The day after the ultrasound, I was hit by a truck and, well, that was that. Less than a week after I found out about the baby, it was gone.” By the end, her words were clipped, like little bits of cellophane tape barely holding back her tears.  
  
Bertolt swiveled his whole body around so he could face Annie. She rubbed the heel of her hand into one eye, then the other, trying without success to stop her crying. When she pulled her hand from her face, she looked up and him and said, “I’m so sorry, Bertolt. I’m so sorry I kept this from you for so long.”  
  
“Annie.” He let go of her hand and reached out to smudge the wet from her cheeks with his thumb. “All this time you’ve had to suffer alone. I think I can understand why you didn’t tell me or Reiner. You had no idea how either of us would react to the news, and since the baby was gone, there was no reason to take the risk. So you closed yourself off.”  
  
“That’s right.” Annie let her eyes fall closed as Bertolt touched her face. “I’ve been so lonely,” she whispered, a confession she never would have made to anyone else but him, not even Reiner.  
  
He leaned in closer, and a teardrop slid down the curve of his nose. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you, Annie, to grieve with you for our baby. I’m so, so sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “It’s okay.”  
  
“I’m here now,” he said. “You don’t ever have to be alone again, Annie. Anything that makes you sad, I’ll take three quarters of the load on myself. From now on, let me share in your pain and we’ll get through it together. Your grief is my grief. And we’ll share all our joy, too, okay?”  
  
She opened her eyes and smiled at him through a film of saline. “Okay,” she said. “It’s a deal. That’s what I love about you. You always give me exactly what I need. Whether it’s your pancakes or a song or Luna or a crossword puzzle answer. Or getting me to spill my heart out. You are truly amazing, Bertolt Hoover.”  
  
“Heh. This coming from the girl who saved my life.”  
  
“I did no such thing.”  
  
“You _did_ ,” said Bertolt. “If it weren’t for you and Reiner, I’d have self-destructed by now. Drunk myself to death. Or worse, turned into my dad. I was saved because I met the two of you, and you were the one who called out to me. That day when you told me to jump, and then when you promptly patched me up with your first aid kit—I fell in love with you right there, Annie Leonhart. In fact, I was quite convinced you were an angel walking on Earth. I’m still not convinced you aren’t an angel.”  
  
“Big dummy,” Annie said, grinning as she shook her head. “I think angels probably look more like Historia. I haven’t quite got the nose for it.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Bertolt said in bemusement. “Your nose is so beautiful.” He leaned forward and kissed her nose; it tasted of salt.  
  
“Like you’re one to talk.” Annie kissed Bertolt’s nose, right on the tip, and continued to kiss up to the bridge. “I’ve always thought your schnoz was rather handsome, you know. Distinguished.”  
  
Bertolt kissed her again, on the mouth this time, sinking into it as the sweetness of her lips infused his bloodstream and spread all through his body. The thought flitted through his brain that she tasted just as good as her brother, but there really was no way to compare the two of them. Annie and Reiner were both brilliant, both delicious, both gorgeous, alike in some ways and vastly different in many more. But Bertolt could not measure his love for one against the other. And his love for one did not diminish his love for the other.  
  
After they drew apart, Bertolt lifted the ultrasound printout to his lips and gave a quick, tender kiss to the child he’d made with Annie, who he would never meet but would have loved with all his heart. Then he set the picture safely out of the way on the nightstand and scooped Annie up with an impromptu forklift maneuver, one arm around her back and the other under her knees.  
  
Borne aloft without warning, Annie squawked in surprise. “Hey!” She scissor kicked the air as he spun her around, her alarm turning to delight.  
  
“You’re lighter than I thought,” Bertolt said and when Annie frowned at him he laughed. “Hey, you may be small, but you’re all muscle.” Another twirl around and they tumbled down onto the bed—Bertolt had actually meant to lay her down very romantically, the way men in movies always did, but he was dizzy from spinning and her arms were latched around his neck so when he bent to deposit her on the bed, he toppled too. And now she was beneath him, pale hair fanning out around her radiant, pink-cheeked face like a halo. God, she really did look like an angel.  
  
Annie’s heart thumped like a mallet against her sternum. Whether it was an accident or a stunningly well executed move designed to imitate an accident, she had literally fallen into bed with Bertolt. Now he was on top of her, straddling her body on hands and knees. His face hovered just inches above hers, those liquid green eyes, eager and nervous, looking straight into her soul. How could she have ever overlooked how captivating this face was? And this body—Reiner’s shirt hung down loosely so she had a tantalizing view of Bertolt’s chest through the yawning neck hole, sleek and flat and olive-gold.  
  
“I want you, Annie,” he whispered and remained perfectly still, watching for her response before daring to touch her.  
  
The desire was bare on his features—the moist, parted lips and dark, hungry eyes—but he wouldn’t act until he was certain it was mutual, and Annie found that incredibly erotic (which perhaps said something about the sorts of men she’d bedded in the past). She answered him by snaking both of her hands around the back of his head and pulling him into a passionate kiss. Almost immediately, his tongue slid between her lips and into her mouth, exploring, and she purred deep in her throat, intensely pleased with his newfound boldness. Her hands tangled in his hair but didn’t linger there for long, moving to his waist and up under his borrowed shirt, fingertips ranging over a landscape of lean muscles and dewy skin.  
  
Bertolt drank Annie’s kiss the way a person dying of thirst drank water, greedy and desperate, like he would never be slaked. He was parched for her, the cracked clay of some long dead lake bed, and she was a monsoon. Her hot, wet tongue moved with his in a slippery ballet, undulating and swirling. Their teeth met with little clicks, felt but not heard. And her hands were all over him, small and nimble, intuitively finding places on his body he hadn’t realized were crying out for her touch until she stroked them. He lowered himself, shifting his weight onto his elbows so he could rake his fingers into her silky hair.  
  
Annie rocked her body against Bertolt’s, grasping and squeezing, sucking on his soft lips. Her mind was already made up that she wasn’t going to stop, so unless he changed his mind, they were going to go all the way. It would be their second time having sex, and already it felt dramatically different from the first. Now their hearts were bare to each other. Now every kiss, every caress, was an expression of love. Even though she had an emotional attachment to him the first time, she’d still commandeered the encounter, and in doing so, kept herself at a safe distance. But this time she didn’t want any distance, any barriers, and the only way for Annie to achieve that was to relinquish control, a task that had never come easy for her.  
  
She tilted her head back and panted for air, baring her throat to Bertolt like an animal.  
  
Deprived of her lips, he kissed along the ridge of her jaw. There was something undeniably lupine in the way she’d arched her neck, submissive even—only Annie would never submit to anyone, least of all Bertolt, who couldn’t dominate a mouse. No, this gesture was not an act of yielding, but of invitation. Displaying the soft, vulnerable part of her neck was a signal that she trusted him to pleasure her without guidance this time. It should have triggered a nervous fit—that so-called performance anxiety—but instead he felt an uprush of self-possession, because her trust came from love. Annie trusted him because she loved him.  
  
Following her animalistic prompt, he descended upon the column of her throat and dragged his teeth lightly across her ivory skin, the tip of his tongue leaving a thin, glistening trail of wet where he tasted her. And as his mouth traveled downward, his hands curved around the sides of her belly and skimmed upward, under her shirt and over the rippling topography of her ribs and abdominal muscles, finally coming to rest atop her small breasts. The jiggly soft swells were the perfect size, filling his cupped hands, the pert nipples in just the right spot for him to roll between thumb and forefinger. He tweaked both at once and Annie let out a staccato moan.  
  
“Bertolt,” she panted, wriggling beneath him as he continued to play with the tight beads of flesh, now stimulated to near pain. She’d made the decision to relinquish control, and with it came a sense of wild freedom to just _feel_ , but the more Bertolt made her feel, the more she wanted. She bucked her pelvis against his, her short fingernail scraping over his back as she did. Again, she implored him: “Bertolt, _please_.”  
  
The undisguised need in her voice—and the unsubtle implication that she wanted him inside her right now—sent a fresh rush of blood to his burgeoning erection, but there were still things he ached to do to her before satisfying himself. He had to reposition, pull away, and when he did she emitted a whimper of loss that made him shiver. Sitting back on his knees, he snagged his fingers under the elastic of her gym shorts and tugged them down her legs. He took just a moment to drink in the sight of her blue and white striped panties before tugging them down, too.  
  
The sudden exposure made Annie gasp. She wiggled her hips, knees rubbing together, feeling vulnerable in a way she never had before. Plenty of men had seen her naked before—hell, _this_ man had seen her naked before—but this was the first time she’d ever felt the slightest bit self-conscious about it. Her best friend and the man she loved was beholding her nude body in all its imperfection: milk-pale skin and untrimmed bush and scarred belly. It was at once frightening and exhilarating.  
  
This view of Annie—wearing nothing but one his t-shirts, her arms bent above her head, knees together, feet apart, a triangular hollow formed by her naked thighs—was so breathtakingly sexy that he had to stare for a few seconds to burn the image onto his retinas, and then close his eyes for a few seconds to bathe it in chemicals within the darkroom of his brain, fixing it permanently in his memory. But no mental photo could capture that irresistible squirm.  
  
“You are so beautiful,” he said, placing a hand on each of her knees. As his hands smoothed up the insides of her strong thighs, spreading her legs, his eyes were on her face, watching her watching him. Her lower lip was clutched in her teeth, her eyes half-lidded. When his hands reached her apex and his fingers combed into the patch of soft fur on her mound, she gasped, her swollen lip popping wetly from her mouth and her eyes going wide.  
  
Bertolt’s fingertips traced her moist cleft, parting the silky folds, and feathering over her clit. That urgent desire for more surged through Annie like a rogue electrical current. She thrust her hips in earnest, trying to force his fingers deeper, but he was keen to her attempt, and only allowed his digits to slip in to a teasingly shallow depth. Since when had he become so wily?  
  
With no experience to rely on, every move Bertolt made was experimental and instinctive. Annie’s reaction to his fingers was promising—she was so beautifully responsive to his touch. The test had excited him, too, alarmingly so. Annie was as hot as melted wax and incredibly slick and Bertolt knew that his cock would not last very long inside of her. He had to do his best to please her before he thrust into her and lost himself. Withdrawing his fingers, he reached for the hem of her shirt and peeled it up and off over her head. Then he leaned in and kissed her as her hands fumbled to get him topless as well.  
  
Things were getting sloppier, hazier. Annie tried to keep track of Bertolt’s mouth on her body, but her brain was always one step behind, dwelling on whatever spot he’d just nipped or sucked or licked and left tingling while he was already on to the next. His lips were heading south—on her nipple, her stomach, left hip, right hip—a branding iron, searing a path down her body. Then he was between her legs and she moaned, a stretched out sound pulled from way down in her belly. His mouth was so hot, engulfing her, his tongue circling her clitoris with singleminded fervency. She fisted a hand in his ruff of dark hair and rocked into his face. Her legs hooked over his shoulders, heels digging into his back for leverage. “Bertl—” she groaned. “How did you—?” But she couldn’t hold onto her thought long enough to form a coherent question.  
  
Every sound Annie made nudged Bertolt closer to coming in Reiner’s boxers, which was definitely not how he wanted this to go. He willed himself to hold on, just a little longer. But the smell of her sex was intoxicating and the taste even better: clean, faintly tangy, pheromone-laced. Her instructions from that long ago first time had stuck with him so he knew to focus his attention on the small bump of flesh, suckling it until it swelled like tiny cock in his mouth. He pushed two fingers deep inside her, feeling the ridged walls contract around them as he pumped in and out, mouth still working even as his jaw started to tense.  
  
“Ah—Oh god—Bert—Bertl—” Delirious nonsense bubbled from Annie’s lips as climax loomed, like a towering wave that would crest any second. One hand twisted in Bertolt’s hair and the other hand twisted in the bed sheets. She was going to come soon, she could feel it, but the pressure in her belly kept building. Her thoughts were becoming a muddle. How could he be so good at this on the first try?  
  
Annie was writhing in pleasure and Bertolt could hardly believe that he was the one causing it. His hand was cramping, his neck sore, but he had to keep going. And then, just when he was thinking he couldn’t last any longer, it happened—with an elated sigh, her whole body bowed like a willow rod and held for half a minute before collapsing, blissfully boneless on the mattress.  
  
“Wow Bertolt,” she drawled, twirling a strand of his hair around her finger. “Just—wow.” She took deep, chest-filling breaths. Her skin was warm and tacky with perspiration, her hair was a tangle, but she felt rapturous. Love and endorphins made a potent cocktail which flowed thickly in her system.  
  
Annie’s muscles were still constricting rhythmically around Bertolt’s fingers when he pulled them out and crawled back up over her sprawled body. He wondered if he was supposed to wipe his mouth before he kissed her, but he couldn’t ask that. Instead he asked, “Did I do okay?”  
  
“Yep,” she said. Noticing his hesitation to kiss her, she took the initiative and kissed him, tasting her nectar on his lips. Not an unpleasant taste. “I think you may be a natural,” she said, and was tempted to add a comment about him living up to the name Hoover, but thought better of it.  
  
“Really?” he asked.  
  
Annie grinned at him and said, “Really.” She didn’t think he would believe him if she told tell him he’d made her come harder than she ever had before. After another languorous kiss, she whispered into his ear, “Now it’s your turn,” and his skin turned to gooseflesh beneath her hands.  
  
“I’m ready,” he breathed.  
  
There was no doubt about that. Already she could feel his member probing between her thighs and when she looked down she saw it protruding from the opening of her brother’s boxer shorts. That gloriously long cock was rigid and ruddy and a glassy thread of clear fluid stretched between the slit and her skin. She massaged her hands over his buttocks, pushing down the elastic waistband in back, then she carefully pulled the front over his erection and he shimmied them the rest of the way off.  
  
“Come here,” she cooed, pulling him closer. One hand slid between their bodies to help align the head of his cock to her dripping entrance.  
  
Bertolt was poised at the juncture of Annie’s legs, his arms braced on either side of her shoulders, his heart hammering wildly. “I love you so much,” he said, and sank himself into her, hot and tight and slick. A groan of ecstasy escaped his throat.  
  
“Does it really feel that good inside me?” she asked, almost coyly.  
  
“Annie,” he panted, “you have no idea.” Then he joined their mouths and began to thrust.  
  
Missionary had never been Annie’s favorite position, but since she’d already experienced a very satisfying orgasm, all she wanted was to be able to look at Bertolt's face and kiss him as he made love to her. Wet and prepared as she was, the size of his cock still caused pain, bruising something tender at the core of her. But she didn’t want him to go any slower or shallower; she wanted all of him, to be filled with Bertolt Hoover, body and soul.  
  
Just as he’d predicted, once Bertolt was buried inside Annie, it didn’t take long before he could feel his imminent release, like a red-hot coil tightening to its limit in his belly. A few more thrusts and he’d be finished. “Annie,” he said raggedly. “Annie, I’m close.” He began to pull out but her hands grabbed his ass and yanked him back.  
  
“It’s okay,” she said, wrapping her legs around his waist. “It’s safe.” It was all the convincing he needed to keep pumping into her. For now, she’d let him believe she was on the pill—her sterility was a conversation for the future. “I love you,” she whispered, one more time.  
  
Bertolt fused his mouth to Annie’s as soon as the three words slipped out, and with a shudder of ecstasy, he came, filling her with his seed.  
  
He rolled off of her right away, knowing his listless weight could not be pleasant to have on top of her, and she attached herself in a koala curl at his side, her head resting on his chest, mouth spilling humid breaths onto his skin, hand on his belly, legs meshed together. He wrapped his arms around her small body, wanting nothing but to hold her like this for a little while.  
  
Annie would have loved to just lay there with him, rag doll limp, for hours, but it was getting late and there was somebody waiting up for them, so she would have to make do with minutes. His heartbeat against her cheek was steady and soothing, like a metronome. The contours of his body accommodated hers as perfectly as if they’d been sculpted specifically for each other. This felt like where she was always supposed to be.  
  
They shared a span of quiet peace until Annie began to stir, prompting Bertolt to speak. “Annie?” he asked as she raised herself up on an elbow.  
  
“Yeah?” She peered down at his gentle, drowsy face and her chest was flooded with delicious warmth. Love.  
  
“This happened, right?” he asked.  
  
For a split-second, Annie was stunned by the question, because he’d asked it so sincerely. But then she realized what he was really asking her: was this another isolated event or the start of something real? She bent down and kissed him and said, “Yes, Bertolt. This happened.” Pause. “And, just for the record, the other time happened, too.”  
  
He snared a hand around her neck and got in one more good, hard kiss before she reluctantly pulled away, sighing as she did. As she staggered up out of the bed, Annie felt Bertolt’s semen dribble out of her and stole a downward glance at the pearly pink ribbon of it running down her thigh. “I guess it’s about time we got ourselves cleaned up and went to fetch our brother-slash-boyfriend for some actual sleep.”  
  
“That sounds perfect,” said Bertolt.

* * *

  
  
“You know they’re doing the frickle-frackle up there, right?” Ymir asked wryly across the kitchen table.  
  
Reiner was collecting the last remaining crumbs from his second slab of cake on the back of his fork and didn’t answer Ymir until after he licked them off. “Yeah, I know. I’m happy they’ve sorted out their feelings for each other.”  
  
Ymir flashed a sly grin. “You aren’t worried?”  
  
“No,” said Reiner. “Not really. Well, maybe just the tiniest bit. I don’t know what kind of success rates three-person relationships have, but I know we are going to do our best to make this work.”  
  
“We believe in you,” Historia said, sucking a daub of pink frosting off her pinky finger. “If anyone can do it, you three can.”  
  
The bit of worry Reiner held onto was not quite as insignificant as he’d made it sound. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Bertolt truly loved him—there was no doubt in his mind about that—but a part of him knew that Bertolt loved Annie more. And if this polyamory didn’t work, Reiner knew he would be the one excised. So he tried to stay confident that it would work.  
  
“Hey Reiner. You had enough cake?”  
  
Bertolt’s voice drew Reiner’s eyes to the kitchen doorway. There was his sister and his lover, his two best friends, holding hands and smiling beckoningly towards him. “Uh, yeah,” he answered. “Sure you guys don’t want any.”  
  
The pair of them exchanged looks and Annie said, “I think we’re good. We’ve come to drag you to bed, if you’re ready.”  
  
Reiner pushed up from the table. “I’m ready.” He inspected Bertolt and Annie’s t-shirts and raised an eyebrow. “Does this mean I have to put on one of your shirts, sis?”  
  
Annie snorted. “Like I’d let you near my clothes after the Incredible Hulk impressions you used to pull when you were twelve. You ruined more than one of my favorite tees, you know.”  
  
“For the record,” Ymir cut in, “I could make a really off-color joke about him sharing other things with you and stretching them out.” She aimed a perverse snigger at Bertolt. “But that would be in poor taste. So I’ll just cut to the chase and then let you three trundle off to bed. Is the love triangle situation officially resolved now?”  
  
Bertolt looked at Annie, on his right, then at Reiner, who’d taken position on his left. “As long as they both want me, I’m theirs.”  
  
Annie leaned in front of him and said to Reiner, “I was thinking forever. Does forever work for you?”  
  
“Forever works for me,” said Reiner. “Did you hear that, Bertl? You’re ours forever.”  
  
“And it’s all thanks to us,” said Ymir proudly. “We don’t require any sort of compensation, of course. But when one of you writes a memoir someday—and I _know_ one of you will—a dedication to your Fairy Godlesbians would not be unappreciated. Alright then, off to bed with you!”  
  
There was no actual discussion of where they would sleep tonight, but Annie, the first one up the stairs, headed straight for Bertolt’s door and the boys followed without question. It made the most sense to spend the night there, on neutral territory—that and her own bed now had the wet patch. They worked together to re-tuck the sheets and straighten the blankets, which had been disheveled by Bertolt’s restless sleep, and then they all climbed into bed.  
  
Bertolt took the middle, naturally, his beloved Leonharts on either side of him so no matter which way he turned he was facing a beautiful blond. He gave each of them a goodnight kiss and said a silent prayer that he wouldn’t knock either one of them onto the floor.  
  
They loved him. Both of them. All of his life, Bertolt had thought of himself as a fuck-up, but that couldn’t possibly be true if these two loved him. And oh how he loved them. Forever, they’d said. That’s how long they wanted to stay with him, and coincidentally, it was exactly how long he imagined it would take to show them how much he loved them. He didn’t know where they would wind up in the future, the next year or even the next month, but wherever they went, they would all three be together. Forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Annie slept in late and woke up more refreshed and less groggy than sleeping in late usually entailed for a morning person such as herself. It was that heavy, rejuvenating sleep, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve finally recovered from a long bought of illness you weren’t even aware you had. When her eyes fluttered open, they beheld her brother’s face, two pillows away, drool shining at the corner of his mouth. She sat up abruptly, blinking at the empty space between them.  
  
“Reiner,” she said. “Hey Reiner.” He twitched but didn’t open his eyes so she reached out to poke him and something jangled on her wrist. It was a bracelet. One of those Italian charm bracelets by the looks of it—Pandora, was it?—ornamented with a glass bead in her favorite color, an intricate silver Celtic knot, and a dangling unicorn. Not a cheap piece of jewelry.  
  
“Morning,” Reiner mumbled. But she was still examining the bracelet and didn’t bother to look at him. “Oh wow. Never thought I’d see that again. Bertl said he left in behind, but he must’ve been hiding it this whole time.”  
  
Now Annie looked at him. “What?” She knew that the bracelet must have come from Bertolt, but hadn’t yet thought about where he’d gotten it.  
  
“That was going to be your sixteenth birthday present,” said Reiner. “He saved up for months to buy it for you. I can’t believe he had it stashed away for over three years without giving it to you or selling it. He must have put it on you while you slept.”  
  
Annie rotated her wrist, admiring the gift, then wrapped her other hand around it and clutched it to her chest. As her brother sat up beside her, she caught a glint of blue in her periphery vision and angled herself for a better view. “Looks like he got you, too,” she said, gesturing to his right hand with her chin.  
  
“Well whadaya know,” Reiner said, holding the hand in front of his face and staring at the Super Bowl ring on his fourth finger— _Baltimore Colts World Champions_. “That’s our Bertolt. And of course he’s made himself scarce for the moment of discovery. Wonder where he went.”  
  
Annie took in a deep breath through her nose and caught the smell of frying oil. Pancakes. “I think he’s making a late breakfast for us,” she said. “Doing everything in his power to make us not deserve him.”  
  
When she entered the kitchen, Reiner close on her heels, Annie was surprised to find Ymir at the stove making the pancakes. “Hey there, sleepyheads,” Ymir greeted.  
  
“Morning,” Annie said, guarded. “Uh, have you seen Bertolt around?”  
  
“No,” said Ymir. “But there was a note from him on the counter when I got up, said he was going out for a walk. He left the pancake batter in the fridge and the note suggested I should go ahead and start making ‘em if I got hungry, which I did, so I am. Grab a plate if you want some.”  
  
Something about the situation unsettled Annie, but she couldn’t say exactly what so she just kept quiet about it. Bertolt was allowed to take a walk on his own and this was a gated community so he wasn’t in any danger. But something just felt off. Using a fork, she speared three misshapen pancakes from Ymir’s pile—Ymir didn’t do the nice neat stack like Bertolt—and shook them onto her plate. Then she headed to the table where Historia sat with the newspaper and a cup of coffee. The TV set mounted to the wall above the table was turned on to a local news station but it was muted, as it often was, and nobody was watching, which made Annie wonder why they kept it on all the time.  
  
Historia’s blue gaze flicked to Annie’s wrist as she approached. “Ooh! Nice bracelet!”  
  
“Thanks,” said Annie, self-consciously. She didn’t want to talk about it right now, not until Bertolt came back and her sense of unease abated. Her eyes darted away to discourage further inquiry and landed on the TV screen. A horrifying jolt of familiarity struck her instantly. “Turn on the volume!” she shouted.  
  
The outburst brought all eyes to her first, then they looked at the screen and saw what she did. It was Bertolt. A photo of him that appeared to have been taken inside a police station was set up in the corner of the screen as a reported spoke. Reiner snatched up the remote and held down the volume-up button until the speakers boomed.  
  
 _“—sought in connection with the death of his neighbor's boyfriend in 2014, has turned himself in to police on the opposite side of the country and says he is ready to confess to the manslaughter. Hoover also made a statement to the police regarding his neighbor’s two teenaged children, who went missing at the same time he did, saying that they had nothing to do with the death. This is—”_  
  
Annie didn’t feel the plate slipping from her hand, didn’t flinch when it hit the stone floor with a earsplitting crack and burst into shards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you make to the end? I really hope so and that it was enjoyable despite the length. This one was a monster. Not just this third "chapter," but this whole fic, volume 7 of Dream Runners. I never intended it to be so long (or to require multiple parts). 
> 
> Writing this one caused me a lot of grief, some of which I voiced through Ymir. Crafting romance plots is not one of my strengths. Nor is balancing multiple viewpoints. It was tough and in the end, I didn't know how to pare it all down. So the end product is—I want to be positive and say dense, but I fear that it is bloated. 
> 
> This was a learning experience for me. I know better than to try to weave three points of view in an emotion-driven story like this. And I know now that smut should never be told from more than one POV unless the writer is way more talented than I am. I will be the first to admit that I am not great at sex scenes. 
> 
> I really hope it wasn't too boring, especially since there is still one more volume left and want readers to come back for it. I will apply the lessons learned here. It will not be three parts or 60K and the points of view will be handled differently. But I think I'll take a week off from writing before I start on it because man did this one burn me out. 
> 
> If you read the whole thing, bless your heart. I know I am verbose garbage, but I am going to strive to do better so please do not give up on me. Concrit is welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued...


End file.
